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The Facility: Chapter 8.

Updated on December 11, 2014

Chapter 8.

Scratch beneath the surface of this grubby machine and you get a termite mound. A heaving mass of fecund workers fertilising the capitalist whore. Under a possessive sky, the clouds gripped unrelenting, casting down a unresponsive, bland atmosphere like chains. Yet still failed to mimic the chokehold the surface held upon the people who moved in comatose grace. Motion in a blur indicated something within, it implied a sentience behind the slurry of action. A dirge, sonorous tone impressed on the brain to snuff out all thought instead became the reward for toil.

Everyone was like this now. Free thought failed to become a luxury, individuality diminished from a right to a privilege and day to day was one long procession, a hyperloop of a life unlived. Somewhere I existed in the midst of this throng of flesh, persisting in the throes of purpose, ambition, grindstone... slavery. There was an uncharted depth of me that screamed as I wafted to and from the production line every day, wailed in horror, a curdling, greasy mass coalescing at a nadir below hopelessness, a level deeper than Hell could ever fathom... there was nothing more terrifying than being trapped and having the knowledge of it scraped away from the tenderly raw brain. We were masses of jelly now, shuddering to and from the place, labouring each day to make the next one.

Take this town at face value and what do you have? A mass of headstones where your liberty is interred. We wander as ghosts across the edifice of civilisation, acting out default, installed meaning as a factory setting on the digital trinkets attached as badges of the zeitgeist. None of it mattered, we worked, we slid back to the grave until our death and only death offered emancipation. All seemed normal at face value, but a face is a mask and we all wore one of subservience.

It squatted over our hutches of inequity, making sure we spread it's dire message of abjection as each day it swallowed us and spat us out, growing corpulent on our diet of poverty. The Facility was all, day and night, living and death, heaven and hell, god and the devil... and I was thankful for it's existence.

We exert and expunge for The Facility... One Nation where freedom is less sterling than the Pound!

© Brad James, 2014.

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