Young Writers Society

A dark-haired man sat in silence, twiddling his thumbs as he stared at the holovision, pale figures moving back and forth as their laser swords clashed. The man wasn't paying attention, no; rather, he needed something in the background, something to semi-listen to as he sat alone in the dark. What else was there to do anyway? He would wake up in the morning, go to work, and then return home. If he felt up to it, the man would cook a meal; otherwise, he'd dial the number on his holophone and order a pizza.

As the two holographic figures continued their duel, the man reached toward the table in front of him. Taking up a pen in one hand and an old, worn-out leather-bound book in the other, he began to write.

My name is Titus. I am a thirty-five-year-old man living in New York City, New England. I live alone in an apartment on Boylston Street, and I intend to stay alone. I am not fond of writing, and I would not be writing if it were not being required by my family and my therapist.

He paused and pressed the tip of his pen against his naked chin, teeth clenched together as he thought about how to continue.

It is May 1st, 7,022 AS, and roughly 11 pm. To me, the world is out of balance and will never be balanced again. There is no hope, no life, no prosperity. My family disagrees and is sending me to see a therapist, Dr. Juliard von Hesse. As noble as their intentions may be, my "toxic negativity," as they refer to it, is not at all some deep inner imbalance as a result of the trauma of any kind. Despair comes not from within, but from without. I am surrounded by old beggars and young fools; the world is broken, and it has been since the Sundering. The moment that humanity chose to use nuclear warfare against itself is the day that the balance was lost, and it cannot be restored. There is no faith to be had in humanity; to have faith is to betray the concepts of modern morality and ethical thought.

He capped his pen, very proud of himself as he stared at the words. Then, the dark-haired man shook his head and uncapped his pen once more. "No, no... there is more to say about the failings of our race..."

There is no peace to be found in the world. Yes, we are in the middle of an era where things like culture, knowledge, and democracy flourish-- but that is not what I mean by peace. New England and the Central Gulf still hate one another, whether they will admit it or not. The Far East has been in turmoil as its famines and droughts have yet to end. Germania, Francia, and Italiana have remained allies but at the cost of their ability to exist independently of one another. That is no peace, it is folly.

Despite being younger than many people, especially in New England, I have seen far more than most in my lifetime, and I am on par with many more. I watched as the final votes were counted as Chancellor Reyellan was elected just three years ago, and I was one of the few invited to attend her celebration ball the following week. I was there when Governor Lancaster was assassinated by a laser blast intended for the Chancellor. I was there when the world mourned for Pope Winifred II, and I was there when New England's people united around Senator Organa when his people were being slaughtered by a terrorist cell in Burma.

When the Sky Reaver's expedition to colonize the moon began, I watched alongside billions of others as the rocket launched itself into space. As the volcanic eruption at Mount Etna leveled everything within 50 miles of its ash and fire, I donated money to the crisis teams and even served as a relief worker for several months until Italiana requested that all nations leave the rest to the locals.

I mention these events not to brag, but to show anyone that dares to read this that I am not some depressed man refusing to see the light of the world. I say these things to show that the light has destroyed itself and that only darkness remains. That is the fault of humanity. That is the ultimate consequence that comes with our actions.

Just as he began to write a new line, his holophone began to buzz. He sighed, reached over, and pressed a green button on the small circular device. The bluish figure of a weeping woman, frizzy hair standing wildly in every direction, appeared.

"T-Titus," she choked out. "Are-- are you there, Titus?"

"I'm here," the dark-haired man grunted quietly. "What is it, Mother?"

"Titus-- Titus, it's--" The woman's voice shattered as she broke into a series of sobs. A second woman, younger and thinner than Titus's mother, appeared on the hologram.

"Do you know where Saint Raphael's Hospital is?"

"Yes, I pass it every morning on the way to work," Titus answered with a nod. "What's happened?"

"Come quickly. Room 3639. Father's been in an accident."

"I'm on my way, Annabeth," the dark-haired man replied, quickly mashing down on the red button of his holophone. He stood, abandoning his pen and book as he raced for the door, holophone clutched in his hand. As he stepped out into the hall, he began dialing a new number.

"Ye-uhs?" a thick-accented man grunted as he appeared in a hologram. "How may I help you?"

"I need a taxi on the corner of Boylston and Smith immediately. I'll pay fifty percent more on the fair if it can get me to Saint Raphael's in less than thirty minutes."

"We'll se-und someone to you-uh immediately," the man replied, hanging up for Titus as he raced towards the elevator platform, footsteps echoing in the metal hallway. As soon as the door opened, a flood of people stepped out while he was the only one going in. He pressed the button for the garage and impatiently tapped his foot against the floor.

My father's going to die, he thought. I sure as hell don't want to miss this.

As the doors opened once more, Titus practically leaped out of the elevator. A small car hovered less than ten meters away. "You goin' to Raph's?" the man in the car asked, thick Brooklyn accent giving him away as the driver.

"Yes," Titus answered, racing to the backseat. "Step on it."

"Yessah," came the reply.

* * *

Titus gently rapped his knuckles against the steel door of the hospital room, silently waiting for an answer. They suddenly slid open, revealing the thin figure of Annabeth, her platinum blonde hair wrapped in a tight bun. "You took your time," she whispered angrily.

"There was traffic all over Third Avenue, we got caught in it."

Annabeth's mouth made a silent "oh." She shook her head and stepped aside, allowing Titus to join them.

His mother sat on a chair, grasping the hand of a thin old man with a wrinkled forehead. She was quietly whispering to him as she rocked his hand in hers. Her bank was turned to Titus, but the old man was looking right at him, eyes pleading for him to say something. Oxygen tubes were clipped to his red nose.

"Hello, Father... Mother..." Titus felt his back involuntarily stiffen. "What happened?"

"There was a wreck on Third Avenue," his mother said hoarsely as she turned around. Her eyes were red, dried mascara running down her face. "No one... no one else was hurt, but--"

"I'm dying," the old man croaked.

His wife turned back to him, shaking her head. "No, Phil... no, don't say that..."

"The doctor said so, Marianne."

"They can't do surgery?" Titus's brows squeezed together as he asked his question.

"Too much... internal bleeding," his father answered. "They're younger folks that need attending to... people that'll live."

"You can live if you go through with the surgery," Annabeth interrupted.

"Might," the old man corrected. "Might..." He paused and his eyes again met Titus's. "We never called you junior, did we?"

Titus shook his head. "No one did, because you were supposed to be junior."

"Nah," the old man coughed. "I'm Phil. I've always been Phil, and after I die, God'll call me Phil, too. Pa called me Phil, Ma called me Phil..."

"Phil is a good name," Titus replied.

"But not my real name. No, my name is almost the same as yours... just a different number.... I am Titus Philemon Winthrop the Second. That's what'll be... on my stone when they... they go to bury me. And then you'll be the Third since your gramps is already dead." The old man paused, eyes closing. Titus had almost thought he'd gone to sleep until his father started talking again. "I'll say hi to Fiona and Desdemona, alright?"

A stony silence followed; no one spoke. There was no sound other than the old man breathing in and out with his tubes.

"You do that," Titus replied icily as he turned away. He started walking outside, but he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't leave," his mother begged.

"I need some water. I'll be back in a few. I promise," Titus replied, turning his head over his shoulder as he spoke. "Just let me get a drink."

The sliding door opened again as he flipped a switch beside the opening. He stepped outside and it closed behind him. Titus took a deep breath and turned left, heading down the hall. There was a bench just in front of the water fountain; after taking a sip, he sat down and closed his eyes.