Eugene swung his legs across the bed, squinting as the bright rays of the sun brushed the sleep from his eyes. Daylight provided just enough time for recuperation before night settled in. Air raids infused citizens with unparalleled terror for themselves and for their respective counterparts who battled away to keep loved ones safe. They never had the same profound effect on Eugene. He may have quailed at the beginning at the thought of a vulnerable father, a thought which acted as the main instigator for the nightmares to follow.
But a very important distinction defined reality from dreams – the latter rendered him helpless to his own fear. Down in the shelter, he could utter prayers relentlessly and draw comfort from the soothing words. So Eugene prayed, one of the few occasions where his mum joined him. They were united in a mutual (though for all their efforts – futile) attempt to emerge the three members of the family, present or distant, unscathed and unharmed from this aerial bombardment.
I always thought it was a bizarre sight, for I cannot recall any act of intimacy carried out between the two, safe for down in the shelter. Maybe that was the only way mother and son could prove their undying love for husband and father. And for each other. Perhaps they felt guilty if they smiled, like they had just committed the unforgivable.
Whatever their reason, I will never know. Eugene is a very difficult person to understand, and Rose's conscience gives me a headache (figuratively speaking). We’re just not compatible. Besides I am hardly ever free to roam about with others of my kind, for even during sleep I must aid the boy. But I digress, for the story must resume.
Now the daily getting-out-of-bed ritual commenced. His shoulders were hunched as if he couldn’t summon the energy to keep himself erect. I often think he resembles a drunken gentleman shamed after a lustful night. The upcoming couple of minutes were exceedingly critical – the comforting, soft sheets cushioning his posterior lured him back to bed, and it took all of his willpower to refuse its lewd invitation. Acceptance was out of the question. His forever loyal books nestled patiently on the hard wooden shelves awaiting his presence.
Ah, good. A yawn quivered at his lips momentarily before he released it the weariness pent-up inside him. It was a rudimentary pattern and brought forth the desire to stretch. His strained back muscles twitched in unison as he bent backwards, tensing his body into an arc. A clockwise perigon of his wrists followed. He executed the stretching of his hamstrings perfectly and was rewarded with silent cracks of satisfaction. After what seems like an eternity, the loathed morning ritual is over.
I just have to grin and bear it (in a manner of speaking, of course, for no conscience can carry out any physical manifestation, unlike the people they are assigned to). Complaints on my part were also out of the question. The very thought of contradicting the ruling deity’s orders was unthinkable. Sometimes I wonder whether or not I should throw caution to the wind (only in jest, caution is an inseparable trait of mine; I would not cast it off to the forces of nature any more than Eugene would serrate his right hand off willingly) and just do as I please. But I’ve witnessed Rampant Evil for myself, a term we use to describe humans abandoned by their own conscience. I can’t bear to think of Eugene in that state. My conscience (yes how ironic, haha) would never be at ease if I had to live with the knowledge that I once ruined a young child’s life. Then there was the pedantic process of facing Him. Unparalleled rage. Cringing retributions. Spending eternity in atonement. I’ve seen it all before.
Oh, but where are my manners? I am recounting a story, or rather, a short biography, without introducing myself. I am a conscience which belongs to Eugene. Of course, I am taking it into consideration that the more perceptive of you have realised this by now. I will not tell you my name, for I have none. However, for the sake of referring to me, you may call me Conscience. It is, I believe, an appropriate label, for I am probably the only one people will have the honour of meeting, albeit through literature. Please do not commit the terrible mistake of calling me Conscious consciously. I will not have myself degraded to an adjective on account of mispronunciation blunders. Especially by some dumb illiterate. A conscience (just an aside – humans cannot comprehend how numerous we are. There are so many of us I am inclined to believe we shift closer to infinity than any explanatory number. The reason for this is that a conscience never dies; it fades away but shimmers on the brink of existence. Trust me, you cannot fathom the royal pain of having Marie Antoinette still around). Anyway, a conscience defines ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ for each person and outlines the duties and morality of humanity. Unfortunately, because of the tyranny we are made to endure under Life’s – yes, she is the ruling deity I mentioned earlier on – rule allows us to form erratic notions of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ according to our ideals. Conversation is only permissible between members of the same family. Can you imagine what would happen if we held discussions regarding scruples and what not? Good Life, we’d end up as faulty as you humans. However, this does not discount the filthy glares we inflict upon each other whenever the opportunity rises. Enough about myself really, this is my boy’s story.
Eugene was born on the 15th of January 1929. And yes, if you are wondering, Eugene is proud because I am proud that he shares his date of birth with Martin Luther King, the latter being a very morally sound person (for a dismally short period of time, as the future would soon reveal ). I will leave out the explicit details concerning how and where Eugene came into this world, for I do not wish to embarrass himself and I. Neither do I wish myself to erupt in a state of acrimony.
Anyway, we were all displaying outward excitement on that particular day, for we knew that the symbol of modern American symbolism would be born. Imagine my relief when I was assigned to Eugene. Who would want to be the conscience of an extremely popular pacifist? No, I was far happier with my boy. Little did I know how frustratingly infamous we’d both become in my world.
He was a plump child; I distinctly remember matching him with a swamp frog. Nowadays, he’s far better looking. The best way to describe him is petit. All his attributes are petit – his frame, his nose, his mouth, his ears - safe for his eyes. My Eugene has curved eyelashes, overlooking feminine Egyptian eyes the colour of disturbed earth. As if in contrast, short and bristly tufts of golden wheat give his hair its distinguishable features.
Now about his past. Obstacles were hardly ever absent, but through the efforts of combined parents, the child ploughed steadily on. Notwithstanding the fact that they were not the ideal family, the cumbersome difficulties they came through only strengthened the bond between the three. Such hardships presented themselves in the form of sickness, public ignorance and inhabiting a lizard-infested rock, replete with apathy and ignorance, would come back to haunt the family sooner or later. The nail in the coffin, however, was struck when temporary unemployment befell the unfortunate father, reducing them to near poverty. They came out of that one with the sudden threat of war. When he left, the family broke down in ruins, like a vase hurled at the wall and shattering. Eugene hid away behind his books – he wasn’t always a gloomy, abstruse child. Rose devoted her attention to cooking and other household chores, depending on physical exertion for distraction.
Back to reality and the present. As soon as the abhorred morning ritual is complete, Eugene drags his feet downstairs into the kitchen. Rose is already there, preparing breakfast. The apron around her waist is so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t cut off her circulation. She always looks like a mum out of a children’s storybook at this time of the morning. The boy plonks himself down into the nearest seat and hides his head into his arms on the uncomfortable, unblemished table. I hate this tangible silence between them more than the disastrous attempts at conversation which follow. I hate the ominous absence of any sign on acknowledgement or greeting. It’s like the chirping of the birds in the trees; if you hear it, your mind wouldn’t register its omnipresence, whereas the lack of it would instil an uneasy feeling in your guts. I sense something is out of place. That’s the thing with us consciences; premonition is a positive and negative feature we find helpful and vile at the same time. Eugene can sense it too. His mother does not seem as flustered as she usually does, going about her duties more calmly than he was accustomed to. The battle between her and her conscience is clearly visible to me, but Eugene’s academic brain struggles to extrapolate a logical answer for Rose’s unusual behaviour.
For the moment, I must cease my story-telling. My boy requires my diligent concentration and I must not fail him. Besides, he cannot face both his mother and her conscience single-handedly. Like I said, we’re just not compatible.
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