Alexithymia

(Written in wordpad while listening the the Anberlin song of the same name as the title)

It's not as if it were impossible to stop this endless spiral, trailing smoke, oil and blood spattered on the inside of the cockpit glass. Stereotypical crash scene. But sometimes they made it out, right? They slid that cockpit open, jumped out, pulled the parachute cord.
Assuming the parachute opened correctly, nobody perforated them with bullets, and they landed in safe territory without breaking their neck, the pilot would make it out alive. Fuck-all odds, if you ask me. Might as well win the lottery.

Thats what I thought as I stared at my bland cereal, with it's pale soy milk. The house creaked around me in early morning winds, other residents yet to wake. A scrap of song passed through my mind with a faint reminiscence, like the smallest wiff of a fragrance once worn by some forgotten lover, long passed.
Shit. It was hardly fair. I could hear the grains of snow beat against the old, warped glass panes of the windows. Virtually see the frosty breath of winter's wrathe creep in through the cracks around the doors and windows, between the ceiling and the wall. It was like some inevitable shadow-thing from a horror movie. Back when they allowed such things.

And still all was bland. It occured to me that this entire house represented the state of things; the state of the state, if you wish. I don't need to spell out the metaphor for you, at least I shouldn't. Unless you're dim on chems, but then, it's unlikely you'd be reading this anyway...
Fuck. It's all so redundant. My downcast eyes blinked away their glaze. I think my 'milk' was forming ice crystals. It had to be warmer in the battered old fridge then it was in this damn dining room. I wanted to crawl back into bed, to dream of a time and place before things were in a state of rotting undeath. It was all so fucking rediculous.

But no. I had to shovel the walks, at three in the morning. Two feet of snow outside, blizzard conditions and I have to shovel two miles to the work site. It wasn't going to happen. I knew it. The house coordinator knew it. If I failed, I would have my rations cut and... it didn't really matter anymore. What really pissed me off was Mally should've been the one to shovel today, but she was eating out that cunt of a coordinaters cunt, so she got all sorts of benefits. It would've been kinky, but it wasn't.
Honestly though, nobody should have to shovel. None of us should have fucking been here in the first place. But here we were. Because there wasn't really an alternative, unless you wanted to rot in the wastes. 'Course, we were rotting here all the same.

It was hard to resist the temptation to just kill them all in their sleep. I'd be doing them a favor, right? Even Brendon, and he was only twelve. Poor kid. Wasn't fair to him to be born into this world. Not like any of us are given a choice to be born.
Some of them deserved it. Some of them didn't. But instead of stabbing the coordinator in the eyes with my spoon, I thought about the wastes. Gated off. Patrolled. Guarded. There were the rumors of course, colonies spread out there, living free, more or less. It was hard to tell if they were spread by trolls or the centgov.

Fuck it. I was dead if I stayed here. And freezing to death out there didn't seem so bad anymore. I took what was mine, and stole the snowshoes. There was only one pair, for the coordinator. Fuck that whore.
The fence to the wastes laid two miles behind the house. A hundred paces out I thought I heard the entire thing crash down behind me; it was hard to tell over the wind. Probably just my imagination. Probably.
I got the the fence and it was halfway blown over with snow, like some sort of one way ramp. An open invitation, just for me. There's more to living than just being alive.