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The Eye of the Storm: A Prologue

January; so full of life. Always bouncing with booze and parties and supposed resolutions to make the next miserable year of your life matter, since you’ve apparently wasted the prior years.

“I’m going to lose 15 pounds...”

“Try a new thing everyday...”

“Eat new foods...”

“Go somewhere exotic...”

“Do my work...”

“Pay attention...”

“Get laid...”

Whatever your resolution may be (hopefully not the last one), you all must realize one thing: January is the worst month of the year.

Why you ask?

That was the month I was born .It was also the month of my first visit to the dentist, the month when in fourth grade some kid threw up all over me in the school musical. It seems to me that January and I just don’t get along. The first month of the year; what better time to screw up the upcoming year? To get your hopes down when they’re supposed to be the highest; to put a damper on the millions of parties that go on worldwide. It seems that I had always been the one person who hated that oh-so-festive time of the year.

It seems to me that January was jealous of the other months. It’s one enjoyable holiday, New Year’s Day, (because, let’s face it, the world doesn’t run out and get drunk to high heaven and party till “the break of dawn” on Martin Luther King Day) was stolen from it by December, for New Year’s Eve is when the parties are hopping, but the minute the clock cries out in the joyous sounds of bells ringing, beer bottles crashing to the floor, party horns, fireworks, balls dropping in Time Square, and even some drunken cheers and “Hurrah!”-s...the party ends in January. People go home, sick of parties. New Year’s Day is always the worst day of the year.

So why not take advantage of it?

Why not use it in a way to make people realize how horrid their lives actually are?

Why not tell them that the only way to create a new life...

...Was to destroy the one they were currently leading?

Destruction is a form of creation, is it not? According to some people, it seems to be the only thing that “progresses” society, hurling us into the future. No matter how ridiculous this sounds to you, it’s true. We started with pitchforks and torches and screaming, so in keeping with the angry mob theme, we just upgraded to swords and shields and gathered thousands of people to mercilessly slay each other as if they never had a mind of their own, telling them it was for “God” or for “truth” or for “Insert Country Name Here”. Then it came to guns, and cannons, and soon the Germans brought mustard gas, which soon evolved into bombs, mines, landmines, and nuclear weaponry.

Why did we even create all this bull crap?

To “progress” society.

To move away from a “threat”.

Whatever their reason may be, they’re using destruction to create something. Hitler wanted a perfect world filled with blonde-haired boys and girls with blue eyes. The Crusades were fought to show the heathens how Christians dealt with others - giving them some brotherly love. Spain thought it would be nice to go blow up England, but that idea flew about as far as a morbidly obese person could. The South and the North thought that beating each other up would either create a world without slavery, or keep the current craphole they lived in with slaves. Nothing really came from any of it in my opinion, but in any case, to these people, destruction is the only way to make things happen...the only hope for people to get points across when others won’t accept them right off the bat.

In short: History gives evidence that people seem to create things or happenings by destroying either lovely buildings or millions of people.

Lovely species aren’t we?

“Oh wow, I don’t like what you’re doing...maybe if I kill you and your family, no one will be like that again!”

That’s human logic for you...we’re supposedly the most advanced species in the world, yet we sink as low as to beating each other with metal sticks or tiny metal beads, or blowing things up in what could be considered a very large temper tantrum...

But, the point is that destruction is how people have solved problems for years, since the beginning of time.

And despite how advanced humans think they’ll get, they’ll never let go of that idea.

Another thing they can’t let go of; deception, lying, greed, and selfish intentions - pretty much a politician in a nutshell.

Do you trust your government?

Do you think that they’ll always take care of you?

That they wouldn’t deceive you, especially at such a happy time in your life?

That they would only tell you good things about the world and lock you in some happy box of joy that they create? I asked myself that question many times, and I can never seem to get an accurate answer. The government is there for one thing only; to make sure that people don’t revert to cavemen-like behaviors and beat the crap out of each other at random with large two-by-fours. But even men can give into their cavemen-like instincts. They may not physically beat you, but they’ll have a giant two-by-four of mental abuse in their back pocket, but only if you don’t do as you’re told like a good little pet.

I was like most people once; believing that yes, the government was too revolved around power and debate over silly things like menorahs in airports instead of Christmas trees, but it was somewhat stable and took care of the big-scale problems that I just didn’t want to deal with. If China’s throwing a fit, let the government deal with it, my soap opera’s on.

But like most fools, I was mislead. I was told one thing, and lied to. I believed it. I opened up to it.

And it all started in that dreaded month: January; on that dreaded day: New Year’s Day.

January 1st, 2092.

Chapter 1: They Say the Danger’s Gone Away

“3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Everyone clanked their ancient glassware together, filled to the brim with a crimson-red wine, sloshing around as they hugged and kissed and wished everyone a happy upcoming year. I sat in my bedroom, lights off, attempting to sleep. My eyes were squeezed tightly shut, a sigh of relief escaping me as I heard them ringing in the new year.

“Time.” I muttered emotionlessly. From above my head, a small metallic tube sank down. It’s hard cylindrical shape didn’t move, but the bottom of it opened up into a thin, small circle, about one inch in diameter. A small light emitted from the tube, the time in a digital clock manner floating in front of my face.

The clock read 12:01 AM. I sighed.

“Thank you.” I stated again, my voice again hard and monotone. As if the tube were a servant, the circle closed backed up, the tube sliding back into the ceiling, as if it had never even been there. I sat up out of my bed, another sigh escaping my lips. I couldn’t understand why everyone made such a fuss over New Year’s Eve anyway...it’s just the day before New Year’s Day...another day...another 24 hours wasted.

“Milk.” I said simply, the same metallic tube creeping out of the ceiling above me, yet this time it widened itself, a perfect glass of cold, white milk emitting from the bottom of it. I smiled and held my hand up as the tube slowly eased the glass into the safety of my fingertips.

“Thank you.” Again, the tube vanished into the ceiling. Taking a drink of my milk, I smiled, a small milk moustache appearing on my upper lip. Standing, I cried out:

“Slippers.” and in reaction to my desire, a tube appeared from the floor, widening to about a foot long, my slippers being produced from within the tube. They were the standard slippers that came with every basic house package; blue and grey. No more, no less. They were somewhat comfy, the small amount of cushion embedded in the heels cushioning the back of my foot as I waltzed across my icy metallic floors.

“Music.” I commanded, sitting at the small stool that was placed before a large mirror, two lightbulbs sitting at the corners of this mirror, my reflection peering back at me.

“What volume?” a monotonous voice asked quietly. I had previously set the computer’s voice to be quiet, so my parents wouldn’t be able to hear it’s questions when I ask for things late at night.

“3.” I replied. The volume scale was on a scale from 1-10. One was barely audible, whereas ten would more than likely cause you to go temporarily deaf. I usually stuck with anything between 3 and 6. I enjoyed music, but I didn’t like it to be blaring or pounding inside my head like most people my age. Other 16 year olds wouldn’t care about the wants of their parents, or even neighbors with how loud other teenagers got with the music. I decided to keep it moderate, so that everyone was happy. As the computer processed my request, I heard my favorite song come on.

It was a melancholy tune about an angel who had fallen from Heaven, being rejected by God himself over his lust for power and greed. Shocked and heartbroken, the angel was hurled into a dark void of emptiness, the Devil not even being interested in his pathetic soul. Weeping in the abyss, a young woman, for some reason, appears to him. She wants to ease his suffering, and send him to the place that he longs to stay for the rest of eternity. Somewhere the poor angel could stretch his newfound wings, and soar to heights that only his heart’s desires could define. Taking his hand, she steals him away, and releases him into another endless world, hoping and praying that God will take some sort of pity on this creature, and let this angel retain his mortal dying wish; to forever be free. The melody was entitled Guardian. I had never gotten why the title was so, but the piano was beautiful, and it swayed in a hypnotic way that almost called out to your very heart and soul, almost wrenching it from your mortal body. I loved songs that affected me like that, and Guardian was pretty much the only song that had ever affected me in such a way.

Knocking lightly on my door, I whispered:

“Music off, now.” The computer shut down the dark, almost chilling sounds of Guardian as I hurled myself from my stool to my bed, kicking my slippers to the floor as I scurried under the covers. Every year I tried to prove to my parents that it was possible to treat New Year’s Eve like any other day by sleeping during their parties, but they’re so loud and cheerful, it’s hard to sleep through.

“Ana?” I heard whispered through the door. I turned around and closed my eyes lightly, my thoughts drifting from the evil that is New Year’s to the sounds of my song. My face relaxed, my mind repeating the tune and words through my mind like the music player that was embedded into my home. Tapping my back lightly, my mother was trying to rouse me. She reeked of booze, wine, and even some cigar smoke. It almost interfered with my sleeping act, but I was stronger than that.

“Honey?” I heard drunkenly called from the door. My father, someone who always seemed to have his morals set more straight than my somewhat “loose” mother, sounded even more hammered than my mother.

“Anastasia...you astound me...you actually slept through this year’s party...” my mother murmered, not realizing that the hand she had resting on the convex curve between my chest and my hips was pressing much too hard and causing me a great deal of pain. I winced, but didn’t make any noises, hoping that mother would somehow shake herself out of her drunken stupor and realize she’s hurting her daughter with her own weight.

“She’s asle..asleep?” My father inquired, my ear’s picking up the sounds of him stumbling into my wall. The thought of him being that drunk almost tempted me to open my eyes and see it for myself, but I had to stick with it; proving mother and father wrong was one of the great joys in my less-than-exciting life.

“Yup...and I wanted to tell her the news about the war...” she mumbled, taking her hand off my side, a new amount of air rushing down into my lungs as I inhaled sharply to recover from the pain.

“...Huh.” my dad replied, not paying attention to a word that flew out of my mother’s mouth. I could almost feel the eye roll that mother tossed him in response to that remark.

“They’re pulling soldiers out next week - the war is won!” she cried with a grin. My father laughed with joy, clapping his hands quickly, only to miss every two claps due to his impaired coordination with simple tasks such as clapping. Getting off the bed, mother hobbled over to him, whispering something. The political side of me, the side of me that glued my nose into anything that dealt with the world of politics, was crying out to me.

GO FIND OUT! THE WAR IS SOMETHING YOU’VE BEEN SILENTLY PROTESTING SINCE IT STARTED! The voice shrieked. Shaking it off, Ana balled her hand up into a tight fist, as if she were choking the little part of her that was so curious about it.

“Come, come dear, we must get to bed if we must work tomorrow...” my mother commented with a sigh, my father replying with a drunken whine.

“I dun wanna...” he mumbled, the sounds of my mother’s struggling steps leading me to believe she was helping him up off the floor.

“You need to lose weight...” she grumbled, straightening her back with a sickening crack.

“Ugh...Retrieve Father and Bring to Master Bedroom.” my mother cried out. The sounds of yet another hollow tube protruding from the floor just outside my bedroom echoing throughout my empty room. The tube produced a small claw-like item, grasping the edge of his collar, the sounds of Mother’s heels clicking down to her bedroom, the tube following the pitter-patter of her shoes. As my door slid shut, the whoosh sound signaling that it was sealed tight, I sat straight up and walked to the window.

People were dancing in the street, waving flags about here and there, cheering and launching fireworks.

Must be over the news of the war... I concluded, turning and walking back to my bed. It was a rare sight to see anyone outside like that anymore, so it seemed sort of comforting to see that humans still had their instincts in tact. Laying down in my bed of grey, silky sheets and pillowcases, I released one more sigh.

I guess I’m not getting any real sleep tonight... I turned in my bed and huffed, my gaze glued to the dull gray wall that sat before me.

It was 12:32 AM, January 1st, 2092.

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