THE LOST PARADISE.
by - R. Hasan.

CHAPTER 1

I wish something would happen... that would change my life, my verily slow-motioned and boring and annoying life. Doesn't everybody think that too?

I guess, they do.

You are probably wondering how do I know... how do I know about the secrets other people oh-so-dearly store in the safe of their minds. I'll say, it's not as hard as you may assume. Their eyes give them away.

How cliché... you are probably thinking. Probably. I do not completely know how do you people think. But, I've read some of the poetries written by poets of your age. I remember, they said, the eyes of their dearests shined and brimmed with emotions. And other people's eyes too... not necessarily with love but with other emotions. Like anger and hatred and joy and happiness...

But my people's eyes do not shine with emotions. They are void. They assemble the pit of the deepest abyss. Dark. And empty.

Pete disagrees.

"People can't 'elp showin' their emotions," He said once.

I shook my head, disagreeing back, "Not true. Look in the eyes of the people. Do you see anything?"

He looked, as I told him to. He inspected the passing-by people's eyes a bit too long. No one looked back at him. They couldn't feel the pressure of the gaze of his caramel colored eyes.

A few moments later, he said, "They do," then softly added, "It's sadness, I reckon," still looking at the eyes of whoever passed by.

Then he looked at me and said, "See, I told ya... they ain't void."

Silently we agreed not to discuss anything more about this God-awful topic and wandered off discussing other topics; which, I don't recall today.

Pete is my closest friend. We met each other when we were still pretending to be the heroes of the entire world, or kings; the girls... pretending to be queens.

I'm talking about the time when we were, maybe, five or six years old.

Pete.
Full name: Peter Erudite.
Middle name: I don't know.
Age: Seventeen.

He is not very tall...not short either, moderate height, broad shoulders, not heavily muscular but lean body, brown caramel eyes, auburn hair, pale skin ... same as me but I have black hair, dark eyes and olive skin.

So, as I was telling you earlier, the people here barely show any emotion or only show sadness (according to Pete).

Sometimes, they do show emotions besides sadness or emptiness. They do.

The OneGov strictly controls everything. What we do everyday to what we think everyday... everything... Every. Single. Thing.

Well, not ours'. My Mother is the Leader of the Third Sector. There are thirty sectors like this and every sector has a Leader. The OneGov has thirty Leaders and my Mother is one of them. My Grandfather was one before my Mother, my Great-grandmother before him.

I'm not sure if my Great-great-someone was the Power Holder before her or not.

I don't care.

To me, my Mother, is my Mother... and my Father, is my Dad. I remember calling her 'Mom' when I was younger, but as I grew up, she became more and more distant and the word, the sweet word faded more and more and became - 'Mother'. Like her. Cold and distant. Hard and sympathy-less.

My Dad, on the other hand... took care of me in every way he could. He wasn't anything fancy or powerful like my Mother. He was a mechanic. He fixed things, for those who couldn't afford to buy new ones.

Took care. Was. Fixed. Past tense.

He is past tense now. Dead. Rotten... no, not rotten, he is mixed with nature; as he used to say,

"If I die -"

"No... you won't die," I stubbornly interrupted back then.

"Everyone has to die one day," He said. He never hesitated to speak the truth,"Even you, too."

I still remember, I couldn't find anything to say after that. I just looked at his face.

"So, if I die," he looked at me. This time I didn't interrupt, "Will you make sure that I'm buried without a coffin?"

I was thirteen then. One week or maybe two behind my fourteenth birthday. At his comment, I nodded.

What else could I do? What else could I say?

But I asked, after a few moments, without thinking, "Why?" frowning in concentration as I looked up at my Father's eyes. They were almost black. Like mine.

He examined my face for a few seconds. Then he began,

"Most of the people wish to be cremated and then wish their ashes would be scattered in the Nature... it's their way, to be with Nature, forever. Even after their death.

"My wish is to be buried. So that I can fade away slowly in Nature and become a part of it. To be mixed with it."

He finished. He wasn't looking at me. There was a wistful look in his eyes... I don't remember anything more about that day.

Weird... huh?
Talking about death with a soon-to-be-fourteen years old boy...

He died after one week.

I didn't celebrate my fourteenth birthday.

He was buried, with a piece of thin cotton cloth wrapped around him. I thought the cloth would prevent his body from being mixed with soil... so I told my Mother not to wrap the cloth. I told her about my Dad's last wish.

She didn't seem surprised after I finished telling her about the conversation I shared with my Dad.

"The cloth will mix up with the soil too," she said.

I was surprised...

What was that emotion behind her voice? Hiding behind her cold blue eyes?

Sadness?
Loss?
Grief?

Probably all of them.

I heard my Father numerous times saying that he loved my Mother. I was sure of it. His love for her.

Even after all the things my Mother did. Even after she abandoned him, he loved her.

"She has her own reason to do so... and I'm fairly certain that reason is quite strong." He used to say.

But I was never sure of her love for him.

Until that night.

I heard those heart aching sobbing sounds... muffled... probably by a pillow... from her room. From their room.

But I didn't know why.

Why did she leave him?
Why did she love him?
Why did she fall in love with him in the first place?

I do not know.

Probably never will.

★ ★ ★

Blake Austin.
Seventeen years old.
Medium high height.
Lean body.
Olive skin.
Black hair.
Dark eyes.

In case you are wondering, that's me. Blake Austin.

My Father's sur-name wasn't Austin. It was Williams. David Williams. Once I asked him why he chose Austin for my sur-name. He said that Austin is a sur-name of a famous author. Some of her works were considered 'Classics'.

Were. Not anymore.

I've read some of the dystopian novels of your age, stored safely and properly in a hidden chamber of my Father's closet. No one knows. Not a single soul.

From those novels, I got to know that some people, of your age, thought a Future Dictator would destroy every kind of literature to make the fellow servants unable to think like a scholar.

Little did they know what would actually happen.

They didn't destroy the literary works, nor did they replace them...

They changed them. The OneGov changed the precious works of the Past. They analyzed every word, every sentence, every paragraph and changed the parts they thought went against them.

No one knows. That the books are not original... without the Leaders.

As my Mother is a Leader, my Dad knows too. And from my Dad, me. He has some very old and original versions of 'classic' novels... a whole bookshelf. with other literary works. Poetry, Fiction, Fantasy, Dystopia.

"Who gave you these books?" I remember asking once I finished a book called The Hunger Games.

My Father said, this book was very famous.

You may not recognise it. Maybe your time is far, far behind. But don't worry. Suzanne Collins will be born when the time will come and she will, one day, start writing about the life of Katniss, Peeta and lovely Prim. I will not talk about Gale... for some reasons, (maybe unknown reasons) I hate him. No. I dislike him. Hate is such a strong word.

Anyways, back to the topic. I was younger then. Classics seemed boring. Dystopia seemed exciting. So, I settled in reading dystopias.

"Many of them, I inherited from my Father, your Grandpa. Some of them, I bought from Black Market," my Father replied, handing me Catching Fire, the next book of the series.

"What is Black Market?" my little self asked.
"You'll know once you grow up."

Contended with the reply, I started surfing through the life of young Ms. Everdeen.

So, yeah. I am one of the very, very, very few persons who have tasted the real works of literature.

Those days have become old.

Today, I am sitting in front of the window of my room. A very very ancient copy of Lolita in hand.

Humbert Humbert is a weird character.

My Dad taught me never to judge a person. Never ever. So, I don't. At least, I try not to.

That's why I'm calling H. Humbert 'weird'. He is much worse. Who lusts after a twelve year old girl?

But I guess, the situation and surrounding circumstances can perform unbelievable things on human psychology...

Whatever.

Pete is here. In my room. Sitting cross legged on the floor. Reading a junk comic book.

The books which are allowed to be published by the OneGov are called Junks. By me. I am not sorry for branding them with this name.

They are nothing, nothing - compared to the books I've read. I mean the classics... and some other books which were published before the OneGov took over the world.

After they have taken over, the subjects of the books are like... silly romance, silly adventure, silly comics. Silly, silly silly. Every book is silly. I'm sick of this word 'silly'. Probably you are too. Let's not repeat this word again.

Suddenly, Pete starts to laugh. I look over. His eyes are fixed on that junk.

"What?" I say while turning over.

He laughs some more and gestures to me to read the comic, his right hand outstretched towards me, junk in his hand.

"No..." I grunt.

He tries again. Needless to mention, I refuse again.

"Why?" he asks.

"Huh?" I'm confused.

"Why don't you read these books?"

"They are junks."

Pete raises his left eyebrow.

"What?" I inquire.

"They ain't junks," he states, "You don't even read 'em".

"Who said that I don't read 'em?" I try to focus my attention back to the confessions and love (or, should I say lust?) of Humbert for his little nymphet Lolita.

"You never do," Pete says, being persistent as ever, "I never see you doing so."

"Oh, please!" I say, "I don't even need to read these books to know what will happen."

Silence.

I look up from my book. Pete is staring at me. His left eyebrow raised.

I shake my head, laugh silently and start reading my book again. I'm halfway through. Poor Humbert. Clearly, Lolita doesn't like him.

Doorbell rings.

Who will come at this time? Generally, I live in the whole mansion alone. Once in a while, my Mother comes here and stays for a few days and leaves again. I tried several times to start a conversation with her after Dad died.

No luck. She doesn't talk. She says she is busy. Always.

I don't mind.

Doorbell rings again.

I get up from my bed. Close the book. Neatly place it inside of the hidden chamber of my closet. Pete watches the entire process without saying a word. I get out from my room and head downstairs.

The doorbell rings again when I'm in front of the door. I look at the security camera.

No one is there.

I open the door. No one. I look down. An envelope.

Who exchanges letters these days?

Bending down, I pick the envelope up. Then I go in and close the door.

Pete Erudite. The envelope reads.

The letter is for Pete? Then why did it land in front of my door?

Strange.

I contemplated opening it and reading what's written inside but I ended up handing it to him.

He gives me a quizzical look.

"Somebody left this letter for you," I say.

"Who?"

"I dunno. Opened the door and poof!" I say, "No one was there."

"Who exchanges letters these days?" he says, taking the letter, "Ain't it history already?"

"My point exactly."

He reads his name on the envelope, "It says my name!" he exclaims.

"Yes, Dumbo, that's how I knew it's for you," I roll my eyes.

He continues to stare at the envelope.

"Open it already," truth to be told, I'm curious to see what's written inside. Just a little bit. Okay... a lot.

I open my closet. Open the hidden chamber. Grab Lolita and sit down on my bed. Eyes on Pete.

Pete looks at me and hesitates for a moment.

"C'mon!" I say, my patience wearing thin, "It's not an email that if you open it, your computer will be under virus attack."

As soon as I finish talking, Pete tears the letter open. He unfolds the paper inside and starts to read. Frowning in concentration.

A minute passes by.

Pete extends his hands to me, letter in his hand. I take it. His face looks confused. I start to read.

Dear Mr. Erudite,

For current circumstances, I can not describe everything in this letter. But we are inviting you to visit Dragon Street. It's up to you to decide if you will be present in due time or not.

You, dear sir, are allowed to bring one friend with you. No weapon and tracking devices allowed. We hope you will make the correct decision.

Place : Dragon Street. Beside the lamp-post.
Time : 8:30 am. Tomorrow.

Yours always,
H.P. Lovewood.
Chief General, Operation two-oh-three.

I read the letter again. And again. It remains the same. No words change.

I look at Pete. He isn't looking at me.

"Do you have any idea who sent this?" I ask.

He shook his head, "How will I know?"

Yeah... how will he know?

"Will you go?" I ask.

"Will you?" He asks, not looking at me.

"This letter is for you," I remind him, "Not for me."

"It says I can take a friend."

I snort.

"What is your benefit if you take me? I can't protect you if they attack us."

"It's okay if you don't wanna come along," he says, "I understand."

How in the seven hell can I say 'no' now?

"I'll go," I say at last.

Pete's reaction is immediate. He jumps up, slaps my back (so hard that I'm fairly certain one or two joints get dislocated) and engulfs me in a bear hug.

"I won't thank you cuz I knew you would say yes," He says, I raise my eyebrow, "But thank you nonetheless!"

"Uh... you are welcome," I manage to say, "But you are probably forgetting that I must breathe in order to live."

Pete releases me. Then he stands there, in front of me. Grinning widely.

Humbert is now trying to teach Lolita how to play tennis. I place a bookmark, close the book and put it on my bedside table.

"Don't you find it a little strange?" I ask.

"A little?" Pete snorts, "Man, it's anything but a little strange."

"So why do ya wanna go?" I ask, "To die?"

He seems a little concerned.

"It might be interesting," he says, after a moment.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Whaddya wanna do then?" Pete sounds exasperated, "Wallow in your books?"

"Wallowin' in my books is better than dying in Dragon Street," I state back, "It must be miserable as hell."

"What?"

"Wishing to die at such a young age... what will the love of your life say?!"

Pete's face turns into a deep shade of pink.

"Oooh... someone's blushin'!"

"Shut the hell up," Pete tries to sound serious. But fails miserably.

It's my turn to grin now.

You see, Pete sometimes talks kind of like a philosopher. Shooting all those philosophical nonsense at me from time to time...

I highly doubt that these philosopher's knowledge came from those junk comics he reads. Anyways, Once he told me that he believes that everyone has a 'love of his/her love' waiting for him/her.

Don't get me wrong... I don't believe a word.

"I meant going there might be interesting," he says, once he recovers from pink-face-syndrome, "Not dying," he gives me a stink eye.

"No, I'm serious, what if they attack us?"

Pete looks at me as if I have grown two heads, "Do you have any connection with the outside world, mate? There hasn't been an attack in centuries, man..." he shakes his head.

That's true.

I have read some old newspapers... you know, those l-o-n-g paper things with daily news written all over them... if you are from way behind our time, you may know them. Or maybe, you still read them. Who knows.

But we don't have newspapers. Pete doesn't know what newspapers are. We have 'NewsMails'. Everyday, we receive emails containing loads of links of news.

I have read some old ones. Safely archived by my Dad, in his closet.

...And, oh God...

Crimes, crimes and more crimes. People getting murdered everyday. Children getting kidnapped, women getting violated... forests getting wiped clean... and...nobody cares.

That's why our world is like this, now.

On those days, people had independence. Total independence. But could they use it properly?

No.

And therefore, we don't have total independence. We can't read what we want. We can't go where we want. We can't do what we want...

But outside people don't think like me. They think it's for their good. They dream, one day, they can again be happy. One day, emotions will again flow through their black, brown, blue, gray eyes...

They keep dreaming.

Hope. Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Hope. That's what keeps them alive. Hope. That's what couldn't escape from Pandora's Box.

But I know, it's just a dream. Not reality.

The reality is, they will forever stay this way. Poor. Hopes in their chests. And people like my Mother will forever stay rich. Maybe they will get more rich...

"Are you on Earth, mate?" Pete waves his hand in front of my face.

"Huh?"

Ohh... okay, sorry. I got distracted again. Anyways, the truth is now-a-days, no crimes happen. Even if they do, our NewsMails contain no such thing. Development. That's all they keep writing about...

"So, will you go?" Pete asks, impatient.

"Why the hell are you so eager to go?"

Pete looks uncomfortable, "What's the problem, mate?!" he says, "It's just a visit..."

I stay silent. Contemplating my choices.

"C'mon, you don't overthink things... why now?" he asks.

Pete is my best friend. He never betrayed me and I can't even imagine he doing anything bad for me. So I don't doubt him. But I also don't think it will be a good idea to appear in Dragon Streets like this.

I'm not overthinking, I'm just being cautious and realistic.

"I don't think it's a good idea," I say, "I won't go; nor should you."

I look at his eyes. Directly. He stares back.

He won't give up this easily...

A.N.

hey there!
thanks a lot for reading the chapter!
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RealPirateKing :)