a snippet by Elijah Benson.
Letter 1
From the diary of Robert Walton.
October 4, 20—
Sister,
This is my 1000th letter. While I have never written with the intention of sending, today still marks, at least for me, a poignant moment in our relationship which demands reflection. Was leaving worth losing everything? I have been so lonely these years - would it have been better to suffer and die surrounded by loved ones than survive free and alone? Was death even certain had I stayed? Surely it would’ve been. With my history in the kink scene I was shocked they hadn’t already broken down my door in the middle of the night and dragged me off to some cage like I know they did with so many others. First they come for the whores and perverts, then they come for you.
I tried to warn you and Mom but neither of you wanted to listen. Or maybe you just didn’t want to accept that life was on the verge of changing dramatically - and not in any way it had before in our lifetimes.
Prior to the coup, we were consistently promised action would be taken but never saw anything actually being done. Every 4 years some new asshole would be elected into office and do the same thing the last guy did - nothing. It even got to the point where we didn’t care if people were doing things that ultimately left us in a worse off position, as long as they could prove to us they had done something. I think that’s why it was so easy for them to take over as quickly and easily as they did. Up until that point, the state had deprived us of our ability to truly have a substantial role in choosing what our lives could look like all for the sake of normalcy and control. They left us crumbs when they had the world to spare. No wonder, then, when a group came in offering at least a full plate of food everyone was excited to see that change was indeed possible and quickly rushed to support them.
Even we had attended one of their first youth rallies back when they were a little more abstract with their vision for the US and their charisma and smooth talking blinded us and many others from recognizing the warning signs of a great evil. I remember really enjoying the Leader’s initial speeches. He spoke freely and didn’t employ language in a way that confused the listener for the sake of tricking them. He was direct. And loud. It’s incredible what a microphone will justify.
Who knew that all the fascist movement needed was a handsome face, a social media account, and some rebranding to slowly resow their ideals back into the conscience of the people? They carefully made authoritarianism cool again by forcing undesirables like sexual deviants and racialized non-citizens further into the cultural margins of society then slowly suppressing their rights once they gained the power to do so.
Of course there were the dissenters, many of whom attempted to organize and educate those who weren’t far gone enough to believe Mexican rapists were being hauled over the southern border en masse on party buses or that doctors providing gender affirming care had been sent by Satan himself. It’s not like any opposition stood a chance, anyway. By the time the various justice groups had put their differences aside to form any sort of intelligible resistance, the very logic of opposition had been outlawed. Our self-indulging liberalism prioritized the individual when what we needed most was a community.
I still think back, even years later, and can’t help but feel a sense of guilt, or at least complacency, about the ultimate demise of the US as we once knew it. I had the education to understand that we were on a slippery slope heading toward something bad and I even tried to spread the word to my immediate circle. However, I always go back to the question - could I have done more? I of course was one of the lucky few who managed to escape before they closed the borders entirely, essentially rendering anyone in the “land of the free” a prisoner. While it may be silly to hold myself even slightly accountable for the imprisonment of the entire population, I certainly find it difficult to forgive myself for leaving you and the rest of the family behind.
You all said there was no way the fascists could come in so swiftly and make such radical changes to the very foundations of American life - not at least without a proper election. But they proved you wrong.
Should I have held you all at gunpoint and forced you out of our home and onto the boat? I suppose I should simply accept that you all were capable of making your own choices but what is one to do when their loved ones act against their interest?
I think what bothers me the most these days is the uncertainty I face when writing to you. While I will always hold hope that the regime will one day fall and the border will reopen, allowing us to reunite, I must also accept that there is a possibility that you and everyone else I know has been rounded up and killed by now - potentially for simply being related to an AWOLer like myself. I knew when they started demanding entry into our homes at night to check that everyone was following proper curfew regulations I needed to escape. I should have at least gone before the first round of checks had commenced to ensure they would have no record of me to hold against you all. Then I could live out here on the sea with the knowledge that my refusal to exist under fascist conditions had not condemned you to a life of imprisonment or death in some gas chamber surrounded by socialists and cross dressers.
Today not only represents a great milestone in our time apart but also serves as a reminder that I am indefinitely alone. Besides any restocking trips made to the few points of entry that are still discreet enough in Canada to offer aliens temporary relief from their solitary state, I have not had any meaningful connection with another human being in years. I’m not even sure how many years at this point. When I left the US I didn’t really take into account that while I was escaping a life of deep suppression and eventual incarceration once the Leader had enacted the policies he promised, I was adopting one that was not just lonely but painfully so. I now only get to exchange a handful of words with those kind few who help distribute resources to nomads living on the fringes of society before I am sent back out to the dark sea in fear of being spotted by Canadian border patrol. While they are certainly not as far gone as the US, Canada still does not wish to provide endless aid to American refugees and would imprison or kill us if we were to be found out at one of our makeshift ports we use to re-up on food and supplies.
I have grown past the point of wishing for a friend. Now all I pray for is the degradation of my mind so as to make acquaintance with hallucinations of the open ocean. At this point, I’d rather be mad than alone.
Sister, with this thousandth letter I lead with the hope that we meet again, even if only as a symptom of my sea-born lunacy. I love you now and forever.
Yours,
Bobby
Letter 2
From the diary of Robert Walton.
October 7, 20—
Sister,
Though I hold much guilt about our distance, I must have done something good to outweigh that karma as by some inexplicable miracle, my prayers have been answered! Just a couple days after writing my last letter, I was lounging on the deck, singing when all of a sudden I started hearing far-off harmonies. I paused to hear, but the siren matched my silence. After a minute, I continued the song and began to hear them again. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked all around me in every direction. At first I didn’t see anything as it was an especially foggy and gray late afternoon. But after hearing the faint tune for a third time, I called out, “Who’s there?”
“Nobody who wishes you harm,” a soft feminine voice answered from behind me. “But nobody who wishes to join you either. I’m just enjoying your song. Sorry to bother.”
“Bother?” I blurted as I spun fiercely to catch a glimpse of the apparition. “I haven’t seen another person in the daylight for years. You couldn’t have bothered me if I was dead asleep.”
The shadow of a boat similar to mine danced closer as I climbed across the deck to get a better view. Aboard was a beautiful woman with long, full dark hair and a tall build. She wore a simple coverall that was years out of its prime, but it suited her well nonetheless.
“I’m out here for a reason. You don’t want to associate yourself with me,” she said.
“I could say the same. But luckily the chances of receiving a consequence seem slim enough that I must ask you to join me for dinner. I’ve been saving a bottle of white wine in my fridge for the past 5 years that I’ve been dying to share with a stranger. Please don’t deprive me of this opportunity.”
After spending a few minutes convincing and a few more exchanging ropes to pull ourselves close enough that she could hop onto my boat, I had made my first new friend in almost a decade. Up close, her features were not just beautiful, but astonishing. Her eyes held upwards to a point and her cheek bones framed them perfectly. Her lips were well moisturized despite the dangerous salinity of life at sea and her jawline was sculpted by the Greeks.
Over pleasantries and a golden ripe sauvignon blanc, I prepared a fish I managed to catch earlier that morning, some canned mixed vegetables, and boiled potatoes. Usually I try to hold back my cravings to account for my lack of resources, but this was a celebration. We feasted and drunkenly overshared stories of our past as the sky turned from a light gray to the deep purple of midnight. I kissed her and she kissed me back. We held one another under the stars, silently thankful we weren’t alone. I slept dreamlessly and when I woke up, only the empty bottle of wine and a slight indent of her body on the padded deck floor remained.
I have accepted the very real possibility that my new friend manifested simply as a drunken delusion and that while I can still feel her head on the nape of my chest, my circumstances ask me to at least consider the prospect of her ghostliness. Maybe this is the beginning of the end for me. If there ever comes a day on this floating prison that I am not sharp enough to prioritize survival, I will have nobody else here to ensure my needs are met. All I can hope is that by that point I am too far gone to understand the alarm I imagine comes naturally in the moments leading to death. I’m beginning to think I was better off alone as the anxiety of facing my imminent end has left me feverishly depressed.
Yours,
Bobby
Letter 3
From the diary of Robert Walton.
October 11, 20—
Sister,
If you could read these letters I know you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that I have been visited again. This time by a small, emaciated man who I can only imagine has been exiled for quite some time taking into account his weak, bony stature.
Last night, I was woken up by a low banging on the metal next to my bed. I initially thought it was another sign of mental decline but once I began hearing frail “Help”s, I went upstairs to check that I wasn’t completely crazy. And there he was - laying naked, practically dead on a plastic inflatable yellow emergency dinghy.
I quickly helped him board my ship and gave him more food and water than I should have afforded. He painfully swallowed two potatoes and a liter of water before passing out on my deck. With the excitement of another guest I have not been able to sleep and wait eagerly for him to awake. I cannot wait to hear if he has news about the state of things in the US. I dubiously hope, for both our sake, he brings only good news.
Yours,
Bobby
Letter 4
From the diary of Robert Walton.
October 13, 20—
Sister,
I had hoped to have a complete report of the situation in the US by the time I wrote you next but in the past three days I have only spent about a half-hour becoming acquainted with the new stranger - and 25 of those minutes were spent watching him violently refuel with as much canned protein I was willing to let him have. In between large, ravenous bites of tuna and chicken I managed to get no new information out of him except his first name: Victor. Seconds after revealing this to me he was turning over on his side, preparing once again for hibernation.
“You’ve slept for the past day and a half - how could you possibly still be tired?” I asked.
“My journey here was a long one. I have every intention of recounting it but I must have my strength,” he yawned.
I suppose I have waited for the better part of a decade - what’s a few more hours?
Yours,
Bobby
Chapter 1
I used to hate group projects as they always required some sort of meeting outside normal school hours to complete. I liked to keep my afternoon routine strict and unexpected dioramas of the solar system or presentations about George and Lennie threw a major wrench in my adolescent days. I was an only child, very much to the disappointment of my parents. They had come from very large families themselves and had always hoped to continue the tradition of gratuitous reproduction. After birthing me, however, my mother suffered from extremely painful fibroids that led her to need an emergency hysterectomy. While I never felt as though she held it against me as my birth was not the direct cause of her condition, I always got a sense I wasn’t enough; that she wanted more. As a result, I tried my hardest to fill any void that was caused by her lack of other children.
So straight home from school I would go. My mother and I spent every afternoon together, busy with whatever new hobby I had discovered. She entertained my eclectic spirit endlessly, dedicating hours and hours to baking, birdwatching, woodworking, painting. Regardless of if she enjoyed the activity or not she always approached it with the utmost enthusiasm and without an ounce of judgement - just unconditional love, support, and care.
She was truly born to be a mother.
My father and I, on the other hand, had a much more complicated relationship. A man of tradition and conservatism, he ruled the house with an iron fist. Rarely did I receive praise from him, let alone affection. He told my mother, “You’ll turn him into a fairy with all of these sissy hobbies. A boy belongs in the dirt.” That comment led to a brief encounter with gardening.
While my mother and I tended to the flowers, I became obsessed with the idea of life and all of its social implications. Despite the fact that humans are just a bunch of cells and electrical impulses, we have been able to understand ourselves deeply enough that we have not only organized ourselves into complex civilizations, but have developed the ability to argue over the best means in which to assert ourselves as a people. I studied endlessly the facts of life and how they have informed our sociology, politics, and values. Much to my father’s approval, I stopped changing interests on a whim and dedicated all of my spare time to reading. At first he wasn’t completely satisfied that my hands weren’t dirty but once I decided to turn my teenaged obsession into a career in the medical field, he shut up.
When I first arrived at school I felt a great absence as my mother and I had not been apart for more than a few days at a time when she would take weekend getaways with her friends or my father or I would spend a night or two with my grandparents and cousins. While I was profoundly lonely for the first few months of my college experience I finally went to a party by my second semester.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, college parties were always specifically themed and entry required costume participation. This particular event called for beach attire which I now, looking back, am almost certain was carefully chosen by the frat hosting the party so they could ogle a bunch of girls in their bikinis all night. Whether this was truly the case or not, that turned out to be the result.
I was relatively asexual for an eighteen year old boy. I had had a few girlfriends at that point and even messed around with some of the boys from the neighborhood at a sleepover once. But being steadfast in my scientific spirit, I chose to approach sex merely as a function of life rather than as anything emotionally or spiritually meaningful. I never watched porn and hardly masturbated. I did it when I got the urge but never in a gratuitous manner. I wasn’t against it morally or anything. It’s just not where my brain was at during that period of my life. That all changed at this indoor beach party.
I spent the beginning hours of my time there chatting up some classmates, making awkward small talk as I watched them lose interest in talking about class. Instead of impolitely asking me to shut the fuck up, one of my more outgoing peers forced a shot of tequila down my throat which, to my reluctance, was the first of many. But before long I was the life of the party. Between guzzling beers and trying my best to remain upright, I met a very attractive girl dressed appropriately in a red bikini with a bright white LIFEGUARD painted across her butt. Elizabeth was her name.
After a while of talking and allowing only our fingertips to brush against one another’s knees playfully, Elizabeth and I attempted to climb into one another’s mouths. Once we finally pulled away for a breath, we realized we were amongst a spare few who were also too drunk to get the hint that the party was over. I offered to walk her to her dorm and she allowed it.
“I would try to come up and tuck you in but I wouldn’t want it to look like I’m trying to take advantage of you,” I toyed in between what were supposed to be goodnight kisses.
“Well, I’m trying to be as subtle as possible when I say I want you to take advantage of me,” she whispered in my ear before licking my jaw down to my neck.
It took us only a matter of seconds after barging into her dorm to make it to her bed and slowly begin the process of undressing one another.
I untied her top as she worked on the knot of my bathing suit. As we both succeeded, I picked up her lower half onto my lap and kissed her nipples.
“I have to tell you something,” she moaned.
“Just don’t tell me you have a boyfriend.”
“No. Just a dick.”
“Is that what’s been poking me?” I teased before flipping her on her back and exposing her not-so-secret secret.
From that night forward there was not a single night I spent without Elizabeth. She unlocked a sexual passion in me so strong that I felt the need to worship her body in any and every way she permitted. All I ever wanted to be doing was pleasuring her.
To justify the distraction this sudden wave of desire caused, I would study her from head to toe, kissing every bone and vein, artery and organ as she tested me, “Now what’s that one called?” As much as our study sessions helped me in the classroom, Elizabeth most taught me about myself. She urged my growth without ever pushing me past my limits. She took her time with me and not only accepted, but loved my flaws. I consider our time together in youth as one of the most transformative and happy periods of my life.
Before long, graduation had come and gone. I went to med school and Elizabeth moved with me. I graduated and began residency. Elizabeth picked up bartending shifts so we could spend mornings together after getting home from the third shift together. Our lives coalesced perfectly and securely, so much so that we had remained steadfast in the permanence of our unity from the beginning stages of our relationship. We loved intensely - gravely, as if our existence depended on it. My only regret in the hours and days and years I spent revering her is failing to realize the world around us had begun to crumble.
Full novella coming soon...
