i•den•ti•ty
- The collective aspect of the set of characteristics by which a thing is definitively recognisable or known.
He stood amongst a crowd of people, his eyes focussed on the ground below him, his head bowed as though in prayer. His hair flew in the wind, gaining a life of its own. His hands were loose, hanging by his sides. He breathed slowly, taking the air in and releasing it quietly, as to not make any noise.
The crowd was the same, each person within it making no noise, making no movement.
He was an individual in a sea of individuals, just waiting for the right moment, the right time.
Hearing a mumble, he turned his head slightly, looking through the corner of his right eye. There was an old man stood behind him, his hands shaking in the intense cold. His mouth was moving, the sounds incoherent and muffled.
Knowing he couldn’t make a sound, he turned his head back around and continued looking at the floor. He heard them coming before he saw them, his stomach twisting itself into a knot.
Their boots beat the ground into submission, sounding like the last beats on a drum. Coming closer, louder, until they were the last thing you ever heard. And then you saw them, dressed in white. Impeccable white, clean white, pure white. White that seemed to repel dirt and glow with the brightness of a thousand Italian suns.
Keeping his head down, he saw them approach his position out of the corner of his eye. They were taller than most people, their heads towering above the crowd. There wasn’t any distinction between race and gender in their clothing. They were all dressed in the same white uniform that hid their faces, the reflective nature of their visors hiding their eyes.
He heard them take the old man, heard them lift him and walk away, the sounds of the boots diminishing as they walked further and further away.
His stomach relaxed, sighing a breath of relief. He was free to live another day, free to breathe once more.
And then he felt the crowd tense, altogether, as though they were part of one being, one person.
It was happening.
Looking up now, as did the rest of them, he peered ahead and felt his heart pound, his breath quicken, his palms grow hot.
The crowd was stood just before a building. A building that screamed at them to run in fear of its content. A building whose doors were opening.
A man walked out first, dressed in white, his robe moving with the wind. A trio of women followed him, dressed in the same apparel. And then a young boy, walking clumsily, one foot after the other. He stumbled a few times, his eyes dazed.
‘Ahh, my people.’ The man spoke, his voice resonating across the entire crowd. ‘How wonderful it is to see you all on the eve of my father’s death. As you all know, there’s a little tradition I like to keep for this day and this year is going to be no different.’ Gesturing towards the little boy, he continued. ‘Each year for the better part of the last two decades, I have chosen one boy from you. One boy who I have deemed to be appropriate for this act.’
The crowd shifted uneasily, moving their weight from one foot to the other. Some shivered while other’s held themselves together against the cold. To show weakness was to invite death.
Taking the boys arm, he thrust it into the air. ‘This is the boy I have chosen from you, the boy I’ve taken for this one act.’ Pausing, he nodded at the three women.
They looked at him for a fraction of a second and then put their right hands into their robes in synchronisation. Bringing them back out, each of them now held a sword, the metal glinting menacingly.
‘Does anyone want to take his place?’ The man asked, almost grinning with excitement.
It was the same every year. He’d come out of his building a month before this and select a child from them, take it with him into his building and come out a month later, holding him. Taunting them with him.
And then he’d ask this question, this shameful question which silenced everyone’s tongue. Every year the boy would get a chance to survive, to live. If only someone from the crowd would step up and take his place.
And every year no-one would stand up. The crowd would be silent.
And then the boy would die.
‘So once again, no-one wants to take this poor boys place?’ The man almost laughed as he spoke the words. He knew this would happen before he had even stepped out of the building.
The crowd shifted as one, a slight shudder passing through it.
‘So be it.’ Handing the boy over to the women, he turned towards them and gave a slight nod.
The woman closest to him raised her arm. The sword glinted in the light. And then she brought it down. It screamed through the air, racing towards the boy.
The sword bit into his left arm, continuing through it until it reached the other end. The boy screamed in pain, his scream tearing through the air. The dismembered arm fell to the floor, blood pooling around it. The boy screamed again, his legs failing him and throwing him to the ground, his face pale.
The second woman simply took his right arm and repeated the process, his right arm falling to the ground beside him. The crowd watched in silence, each member’s heart thumping with fear, their breathing quick and short, their minds praying for it to stop.
And then came the last woman. Her eyes looked at the boy in front of her, her arm on what remained of his shoulder. He turned his head and looked at her with his pleading eyes.
She brought her right arm down.
The eyes blinked once and then stopped moving.
The head rolled around on the ground for a while and then stopped, his eyes staring at the sky above, lifeless. His body collapsed forward, his torso encased in blood.
The crowd remained silent.
‘You could have saved him. But you chose not to.’ The man’s voice was quiet but carried through the wind. ‘And now, because of your simple choice not to do something, he’s dead. How much more guilt can you carry? How much more pain can you harbour before one of you decides to jump and say no?’ He looked at them all, distaste written on his face.
Looking up at the man stood in front of him, in front of them, he clenched his fists. He could feel the emptiness behind him where the old man stood. He could see the little boy’s lifeless body.
Anger forcing him to see red, he breathed quicker and quicker, the oxygen rushing to his muscles.
And then he stopped.
It was clear, what he had to do.
He raised his hand into the air and, almost immediately, heard the sound of the boots heading his way. Felt the people in the crowd move out of the way for them. Saw them out of the corner of his eye.
They put a hand on his arm and pulled him with them, making their way to the edge of the crowd. And then to the front where the man stood.
‘Ahh, so we have someone who would like to say something.’ The man tried to laugh it off but his uncertainty was clear. ‘Come, come, young man. Stand. Talk.’
The guards let him go and he stumbled forward.
‘What’s your name?’
He looked at him and tried to focus his eyes. His breath stopped in his throat. ‘Nothing.’ The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
‘Nothing? Your name is Nothing?’ The man laughed.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you have to say Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’ The boy looked up at him, looked at the reason so many had died. And felt an anger he had never felt before. It pulsed through his entire body, fuelling him.
Putting his hand into his pocket, he felt around for the broken piece of glass he carried everywhere. Holding it, he felt the warmth of his blood pour over it but felt nothing of the pain.
The man was laughing at him. ‘So Nothing has nothing to say?’
‘No.’ He was so close to him, he could smell the fear on his breath, he could see the little flecks of spit that flew out of his mouth. And he knew.
Taking his hand out of his pocket, he threw the piece of glass right at the man’s face.
Time seemed to slow down, the glass flying through the air slowly. Specks of blood flew with it, piercing the man’s clothes with red.
And then he saw the man grab his throat. Heard the choke. Felt the grip on his neck.
And then he gasped in pain, horrible pain. Pain unlike any other coming from the side of his torso. Feeling it with his hand, he felt the metallic smoothness of a knife, the wooden handle. Choking, he fell down to the ground while he saw feet running around him through his blurred vision.
He heard a thump of something hitting the floor and tried to move his neck, but he was so tired. The energy from before had dissipated.
He could feel himself losing consciousness, his grip on reality fading fast. His mind kept throwing up the question he had asked himself for years. The question that he wouldn’t be able to answer now.
Because of his foolishness.
Because of his anger.
Who am I?
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