Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

After these thoughts I would always chastise myself, assuring my fractured mind that I would be faithful to the one who had found me first – forever ignoring the many more who would offer themselves freely to me. Her loyalty would be rewarded, if I could just be with her. She never knew that what she believed me to be is actually what I am. I never got to tell her the truth about me – the truth that the robes I took off were as real as my birth right to the empire around me. I wanted to tell her. I desperately wanted her to know that we could have been more than virtual lovers. We were so close yet so far.

I only ever got to show, never to reveal. I came close to sharing my plans with her. The further they came to becoming a reality the more I wanted to confide in her my deepest hopes: that soon we would be able to embrace as one. I would be in America within the year. If she could wait that long I would make it worth her while, giving her all the treasures that my land could ever offer. It was a question I was dying to ask but I never got the chance.

When they found me exposed, close and entirely in the moment, my father’s first threat was to have me executed. He screamed at me; I felt as though I’d been unfaithful to a cause without even knowing it. He said that I should be sent back to the moment when I was at my lowest; my most depraved, and that is how I would be buried.

But the beauty of being the only one left in a family where bloodlines matter most, so obviously brings a blanket of safety that cannot easily be thrown away. She screamed for me when they shot the lock and stormed into my room, carrying me away as I commanded, perhaps begged, them to stop. When they finished hosing me down with cold water my father finally let me put a robe on and then he sat next to me, his face level with mine. He said she was still on the screen when he finally entered my room, her pale face staring back at him. He told her who he was, and who I was, and helpfully informed her that the things we had done together were sins in the eyes of anyone who mattered. He forgave me but said he could not do the same with an infidel such as her. He had kept her online as his men found her real life location. She had threatened to call the New York Police Department, but this meant very little when our spies got to her.

As he told me this story, he grabbed my manhood, balls and all, and lifted me up, staring into my eyes as he promised that she had paid dearly for my mistake, and that this was the last time we would ever talk about the USA. He said that if I was doing such things then I would never study there, exposed to all that corrupting filth. I could not be trusted, and so my computers and passports would all be removed from my possession, just in case I had any more foul ideas.

In many ways it was as if he had blinded me; he took away my ability to communicate with the outside world, with the friends I had found in that place with few boundaries – no physical boundaries, at least. The virtual me wasn’t held back by my looks, my future or my place of birth. I could be someone different and I often changed exactly who that person was, trying out new versions of myself, finding the one that best showed who I wanted to be.

I told none of this to my father, although I’m sure his men found out all of my secrets on the laptops they seized. I made no effort to hide any of it, having hidden enough of myself all over the planet. I wondered if all those distant friends I made would ever remember me, or if to them I would go forever offline – followed but forgotten – nothing more than a memory of the past that only ever hung around the edges of their waking lives. My father didn’t understand anything about this new world and became convinced that I needed a simple life, to enable myself to remember who I was and what I would become. And now with each layer I put on my body I hide further away; busy being the person I am supposed to be, never the person I want to be.

When I’m finished I look in the mirror that’s leaning against the wall. The breeze from the balcony and the fans on the ceiling are doing little to help me. The heat from all these garments is stifling and they work together to form a blanket that slowly suffocates me, giving me no freedom to be who I really am. My real self remains hidden somewhere deep inside and I somehow tolerated this for so many years, knowing that there was always a possible way out. I had been looking forward to a year in the United States of America with every ounce of my being. I planned to quietly disappear while my brother continued to charge forwards, only a short step behind my father, preparing to lead to the family while I happily shrank into oblivion. It would have been my chance to be different, to find myself – to be me. After that I had many ideas of what my future would look like, mostly centring around my eventual and eternal escape.

The knock on the door comes on cue, barely a second after I have fixed my turban and taken a deep breath. I don’t answer at first, but there is no second knock; the handle turns, and I am imposed upon.

‘Shouldn’t you knock again, Abdul?’ I say, turning to look at him.

He looks back at me, dressed in his simple suit – so entirely boring next to everything I am forced to wear, like I’m the only one to go on stage – the only one who requires a costume in these uncertain times.

‘A prince deserves the respect of a second knock, don’t you think?’ I say, desperately trying just to elicit a response, let alone assert anything that resembles authority. I know that in this place I have none.

Abdul doesn’t answer, instead choosing to fuss around me, pulling my robes tighter and searching around for the appropriate shoes. ‘A prince has to earn that right, Jalal,’ he says, focusing on hunting for my footwear instead of looking at me. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that you certainly have not earned that right.’

I don’t answer, instead sitting down and watching my own personal dictator rummage through my things, both of us knowing there is nothing left that should be hidden. I watch and wait for him to throw the shoes in my direction, which he does, silently demanding that I comply. The man who is supposed to be my advisor, my confidant and my voice of wisdom simply walks across me and stands back at the doorway, tapping things into his phone and telling me that I need to hurry up.

‘The Americans will soon be here,’ he says, as we walk along the marbled corridor. I follow him, always one step behind, his little legs doing a great job of setting our hurried pace, as if he is floating through the palace on a cloud of nervous energy.

‘Why do they want to meet me?’ I ask, stopping still. I wait, somehow finding the courage to anchor myself in one spot, hoping for an answer that will make moving worthwhile.

He stops and turns around but doesn’t walk the few steps back towards me. Instead he tuts and sighs, as if this only re-enforces his feelings of frustration at decades of being stuck with me. The man who has been telling me what to do since I was a small boy does the same again, demanding that I come to him.

‘I’m not a fucking dog!’ I shout.

It’s enough to bring Abdul tearing towards me. We both look around to see the guards who were lingering behind pillars and on balconies suddenly come into view. He smacks me on the arm. ‘Why must you constantly embarrass me? You must learn to behave like a prince and not a petulant child.’ He rubs his eyes, his head shaking, as he takes time to properly massage the exhaustion out of his weary head. ‘You do realise that your brother would never have behaved like this.’

His eyes reach into mine, and I somehow find courage from my growing rage. ‘My brother is no longer here. You must accept that and start treating me like a prince. I will be in charge one day, Abdul. You had best remember that.’