As they opened the door and walked out into the streets, they were met by a wall of water.
Still laughing and singing, his friends opened their umbrellas and hurried across the street,
but he didn't.
Although he had enjoyed the swinging music, the booze and the up-beat atmosphere in the club, he still felt 'blue' and the rain just added another layer of blue to his already miserable mood.
What was there really to sing about? he thought, what with lunatics taking over the asylum and people with blinders following those lunatics as they all head for the abyss and utter destruction.
Soaking wet, he opened the door to his apartment, took off his over coat, threw his hat on the kitchen bench-top, opened the fridge and took out a beer.
He opened the beer, took a sip, and then walked up to the window.
It was still pouring down with rain.
Standing on the main table was his typewriter with a blank piece of paper in it. He was supposed to have handed in his manuscript two weeks ago, but he just couldn't bring himself to finish the book.
The typewriter had stayed silent for weeks, and the paper in it, remained untouched.
When he began writing the book, he still had the hope that sanity would prevail and that the drums of war would be silenced, but with more and more rumors telling stories of people disappearing to god knows where, his hope had begun to dwindle.
What if the rumors were true?
He pulled out the chair at the table, sat down, and once again found himself staring at the blank page.
Nothing. Not a single, solitary word.
Perhaps a cigarette will get me going? he thought, so he reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a crumpled cigarette, lit it, yet he still remained wordless.
Watching the smoke from the cigarette as it slithered its way upwards, he was reminded of something his father used to say: 'War, son, especially war that involves gasses is hell, there are no words to describe the pain, suffering, death and destruction such brings, and I should know, since I am still suffering from the effects of having survived such.' Though his father had never really spoken of his
experiences as a soldier, as a boy, he had watched his father as he struggled to keep the demons of war at bay when he returned home from the war of all wars, and watching his father suffer like that, was enough for him to conclude that wars, for whatever reasons, never justified the means.
Ouch!!
A burning sensation in his fingers snapped him out of his reverie. While reminiscing he had forgotten all about the cigarette. He stubbed it, lit another one and then went back to staring at the blank page.
Nothing.
Again.
He decided to exchange the beer for a coffee.
Waiting for the coffee to brew, he looked out the kitchen window at the street below and noticed
that there was a lot of silent but fervent activity going on.
Where were they all going?
At 4:30 in the morning and why were they all whispering?
Nosy by nature, he decided that he had to find out what they were doing.
A quick sip of coffee, then he ran downstairs.
Standing on the curb, he found Mr. Hillier, his downstairs neighbor.
-Mr. Hillier, what's going on, where are you going?
-Ssh, not so loud, Mr. Callega, have you not heard?
-Heard what, Mr. Hillier?
-There are some who have decided that we are not the right type.
-Right type of what, Mr. Hillier?
-Right type of human beings, Mr. Hillier.
-Right type?
-Yes, seems we used to be the right type, but now we are not, so we must go.
-Go where, Mr Hillier?
-Away from here before something bad happens to us.
-Wait, wait, what makes you the wrong type, Mr Hillier?
-I don't really know Mr. Callega, but there are rumors that not being the right type you may end up dead.
-Please, me and my family must run now, bye Mr. Callega, and with those words Mr Hillier and many others scurried down the street.
Slowly he walked back up to his apartment.
The wrong type of human being? Since when are there wrong or right type's of human beings, he wondered.
Are we not all flawed human beings, capable of at times behaving admirably and at other times deplorably? He poured himself another cup of coffee, walked up to the kitchen window again and looked down at the street below.
Except for a cat or two, a few odd bits and pieces, the street was once again silent.
Behind the rooftops of the apartment buildings, the sun was trying to rise, trying to transform night into day.
As he drained the last of his coffee, he had a sickly feeling in his stomach.
Were the rumors true? Did Mr. Hillier have it right? Is there some sort of 'human culling' going on?
Are there people who see themselves as the 'right type' getting rid of people they see as the 'wrong type'?
His head suddenly began to spin, not only from having been awake all night, but also from a sense of impending doom. He sat down on the chair in front of the typewriter, pulled out another crumpled cigarette, lit it, took a drag, and then stared at the blank page.
After a few minutes, he pulled out the blank sheet of paper, grabbed the unfinished manuscript next to the typewriter, stood up, walked to the wastepaper bin, then threw the lot in.
Next, he took out a fresh, blank, piece of paper, rolled it through on the typewriter to the middle of the page and then wrote: "Human culling in the name of right and wrong types of human beings always proceed war, death and destruction."
The typewriter no longer stayed silent, it was shouting.
''We may need to rise above our individualistic concerns and to find a way to embrace a concern for all humanity and all other living things, in order for all of us to flourish.''
[Citizen Z]
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