In Two: The Fool

Chapter Three: The Sun on the Corner

I pull out pencil crayons and paper for Cillian to colour. If I can’t do anything else, at least I can inspire his creativity. 

The blaring noise of TVs and computers pours through the walls from surrounding pods. The powers that be created a virtual world to obscure reality, but it creates noise in mine.

I look at our TV sitting in the corner, collecting dust bunnies, and feel proud. A monument to my victory against technological distraction aids. The screen’s black glass seems to hum in the background, as if it’s waiting for me to forget myself and turn it on. 

I go over to see what Cillian is drawing. Amongst grey pencil scribbles, he has depicted our pod community—concrete walls, blacked-out windows, a gate. The only colour beyond grey is yellow, he drew the sun's rays hitting everything.

It reminds me of my drawings when I was a kid, they bloomed with trees and flowers, and always had sun shining in the right corner, symbolizing happiness. Now I associate yellow with death—dead plants, dead eyes…The same sun that yields the power to make life possible on Earth is making my life impossible to bear.

I force a smile for him. “You did an amazing job drawing our community!” His smile beams up at me like the sun I remember as a child. “Do you like the color yellow?” Such innocence. 

“Yes,” I reply, keeping my mouth curved even as my eyes turn sad. I shiver despite the stifling heat. Burning tears well up, but I brush them away before Cillian sees.

“It’s my favorite.”

I can only hope this is easier for him than for me. I knew another way of life. This is all he has known.

“No, no,” I yell into the void, feeling myself start time travelling. “Time travel” is the name a therapist gave me for when traumatic memories drag me back into trauma states.

“Tock, tick, tock” goes the clock taking me back in time.

I am eighteen again, clutching my purse as I weave through downtown streets. The scorching heat makes each step feel like I’m running a marathon. I pass a newspaper stand, every headline screams ‘TEMPERATURES REACH LETHAL LEVELS WORLDWIDE TRIGGERING GLOBAL COLLAPSE.’ The papers are wilting in the heat, ink smearing from humidity.

Bodies are collapsed on the pavement and I don’t know if they are dead or just given up. Every shop and office building has a “CLOSED” sign on the door. Sirens blare from every angle, disorienting me.

Eyes follow me from the sunken faces, and the only sound is a constant, guttural scream, as if humanity has forgotten how to speak and can only cry out in pain. “Ahhh. Ah. Ahgh.”

I pinch my nose against the smell—rotting flesh. I will never forget this smell.

“Tick, tock, tick.” I’m back in the present, shaking—I can still feel those eyes following me. What happened to those people?

Cillian is looking at his drawing, oblivious. My gaze fixes on the gate he drew. I remember when they announced the plan to convert the city buildings into these communities: People cheered for the gates, desperate for order and safety from the chaos outside. They missed the fine print—that the gates keep us locked in. 

He looks up, and puts his small hand on my arm, "Mommy, your face is wet," he whispers. I didn’t even realize I was crying again. "Looking at your drawing brings me happy tears, sweetie." If they could give us a timeframe for smelling fresh-cut grass again, this would be more bearable.

“I have a question?” He asks, pointing to his drawing. “Ecopod? The pod is our apartment, right? What does Eco mean?” 

“It’s short for ecology,” I say. “That means living things—plants, trees, animals, people—and how we’re all connected.”  

“But there’s no plants. Or trees.” 

A pressure headache begins to pulse behind my eyes. “No,” I admit. “Not here. Not anymore.” 

Cillian frowns, his finger circling the blank white space where a tree might have been.

“Then… Why  is it called an Ecopod?” His voice is soft, but it lands in my chest like a heavy blow. His question dismantles everything we’ve been told.

I pause unsure of what to say. In the fog of watching the forests disappear, they’d said: “These pods will save Ecology, because they limit individual emissions.” Without green landscapes to inspire hope, we listened to them. “Ecopods”—just suffocatingly small apartments.This is the type of wordplay they use to trick our minds. 

I glance toward the window. Beyond it, the shimmering gate glints in the daylight, the world beyond is hazy and unreachable. I see cracks in the narrative. We can still breathe outside air. All the plants died on the same day—too coincidental to be a coincidence. I have yet to find others who remember…. Or maybe nobody else will admit that the crisis feels manufactured.

I move my lips to form back into the smile I don’t feel. And begin to make up an explanation, “E—“

The loudspeaker blares, interrupting us: “Remember: Every step you take outdoors disrupts what ecosystems have begun to heal. Keep inside. Keep prudent. Protect the planet.” The government is like a bird constantly chirping in our ears, its unnerving melody prevents us from forming our own thoughts.

Cillian woke me in the dead of night: “I dreamt of a tsunami flooding our whole neighbourhood.” Then again early in the morning: “I saw our pod community burning down.” These announcements simmer in our subconsciousnesses, and play out in our dreams. When a message repeats, it starts to sound like the truth… 

I grab the green crayon, and draw a tree on his drawing. “They just forgot to put the plants and trees back,” I lie as an answer to Cillian. “And sometimes, when people forget, it’s up to others to remember for them.”

They say, “ignorance is bliss,” but the words hidden in my heartbeat whisper, “Indifference is piss—I need to believe I can do something about this.” Perhaps that was their trick all along—convincing us that this version of reality is the only possible one.

“Thud, thud, thud.” As my anger rises, so does the song of hope in my heart. It crescendos—I am going to find a way to free us. 

I look out the window at the oppressive gate, and back to Cillian's drawing. Then, with my newfound determination, I pick up the yellow crayon he used—that he still sees as hope—and place it firmly back in his hand.