Lochlan Bloom - Dust - Sandstorms

There had been a period, after it became obvious that the dust would not recede, when a strange malaise started to afflict people. It’s symptoms varied slightly between cultures but mainly it manifested as extreme tiredness. It became known as LESS – Lower East Side Syndrome – after the place of its first diagnosis.

A city once renowned for its energy, dynamism, slowly crumbled as more and more of its inhabitants struggled to make it out of bed each morning, lifted their heads from their pillows and could not face what was outside, could not face to look out the window. The wall of swirling dust sapping their blood.

The young and old were affected equally. Medical conferences were convened and there was rigorous debate about its causes. Was it psychosomatic? What was the link to existing diseases such as ME? Many people believed it was not a real disease, a psychological weakness and nothing more.

One of the most vehement opponents was Bill Brogan, a right wing talk show host. He campaigned on national broadcasts demanding that people show more back-bone, that healthcare for sufferers was cut and the money used to tackle the real problems. He had a very clever slogan I recall – MORE not LESS.

He talked at length about the strength of the individual and the leadership that had first built nations. He compared the struggle against the encroaching dust with the first explorers that had made the arduous journey across the land to build the foundations of wealth. He belittled the weak leftists who promoted a society that ‘sapped the human spirit’. He was vigorous, loquacious.

‘This disease is an excuse, it’s something invented by the weak to hide their lack of spirit.’ I could almost hear his booming authoritative voice. ‘This nation was built on the strength of people that weren’t afraid, people that didn’t run away at the sight of a storm on the horizon.

He was very successful. At the height of his campaign there was even a downturn in the number of reported cases of LESS. Even those people, like me, that were naturally inclined to gloominess, were briefly convinced.

Then his broadcasts stopped.

‘Bill is taking a break from live broadcasting to focus on the campaign,’ his PR people said. ‘He is taking his message to the people on streets but he will be back on our screens soon’

Of course it was only a matter of minutes before the first jokes circulated, the rumours that Bill Rogan was suffering from LESS. Nobody thought it could be true at first but as time passed and it became obvious he was not ‘taking his message to the people on the streets’ a new mood took hold. People started to realise there was no joke.

They never discovered the cause of the disease. It became an academic question. Despite the media interest and the fervour that surrounded it the sufferers were a relatively small fraction of the population. People became hardened, developed a new way of getting through life that didn’t have space for the sort of questions Bill Brogan asked. When there was no healthcare then the issue of how taxes were spent became irrelevant.

I was simply over-tired I had been driving for days, driving myself hard, travelling head first into the blizzard. The thought of sleep was sublime and as I looked at my captor, above me in the back of the van I saw him as my saviour. I barely noticed the noise as the rear doors of the truck were opened again and the same strong arms lifted me back into the air.

I sailed through the dancing dust and they transported me to the other vehicle. The leader’s car no doubt. The saviour that had found me out here in this blizzard. Inside was like a womb. I was a little girl, carried by these men. They placed me delicately in his bed. He would look after me I felt sure. He had a kind face. I hoped I could show him my gratitude. Would be good enough to please him.

We were moving. I had been far away. A familiar place, somewhere there was no dust. I had no name for that place but I knew it well, there was sky there. Once upon a time the sky had even been clear but recently, whenever I went there, it was always overcast. Threatening clouds always appeared. Still it was a relief that there was no dust. It had grown with me this dream place, it had grown with my dreams, and had also failed.

As I awoke I felt I was being tugged back across a great distance. The bed sheets were smooth and comfortable against my skin. I was warm and cosy, snuggled into the bed. Beneath me the solemn throb of an engine caused a pleasant vibration to travel through the mattress.

Everything suggested I should leave the dark foreboding clouds of my dream and return to the real world but I knew that the real world meant dust. In the dream realm a nightmare was something that you could wake from. I dove down again, searching for sleep, but some force buoyed me upwards, back towards the surface.

His car was evidently more of a wagon. I was in a small pristine cabin in what I took to be the rear of the vehicle. Everything was simple but with a functionality that implied luxury. Miraculously there was not a sign of dust anywhere. The air cleansing unit must have been top of the range. Beside the bed was a small basin and a shelf. There was no sign of personal items. Why would there have been?

My head still swam with images from my dream and a cold, unhappy stone settled in my stomach as I realised where I was. I thought of my captor. His kind face. A certain seriousness, a determination to achieve something. It was not a look I had seen on someone’s face in a long time.

Now, in the warm sheets, I imagined him returning. Forcing himself upon me. I felt the stone in my stomach start to glow. I felt my hand moving down between my thighs. The bed was floating on a sea. I was youthful. In the Caribbean. Somewhere that used to exist. Shallow tropical waters. It rocked gently as we made love. I couldn’t tell if the bed was on stilts or was floating on the waters surface. He was on top but he wanted to enter from behind. With one easy motion he twirled me, as if I was as light as a feather. My body was like a cat’s. In the covers I squirmed over on to my front. My arm was trapped beneath my belly. I spread my lips and pushed my finger deeper. His body felt good against mine. Forcing deeper into me. Loving. I moved my fingers faster. He tugged at my hair. Something changed in his demeanour. He becomes angry with me. He is enraged at my presence. He calls me a ‘whore’, a ‘bitch’ but that only heightens my pleasure. The stone in my stomach pulses, burns brightly. I am the stone and the burning. I have a momentary sense of what it is to be a thing, a rock, inanimate, a useless particle blown by someone else’s desire, something that does not deserve its own thoughts, something to be ground down. He cannot even see me, the angle that he pushes me down, but he can see straight into me. The Caribbean waves lap at the bed and, around the cove, no-one would suspect the violence that he metes out on me. I feel guilty but it is the violence that I ask for, the violence I demand.

I fell asleep again and when I awoke he was by the bed.

‘You have rested,’ he said.

I felt a momentary embarrassment as I remembered him inside me.

‘Yes, thank you.’ I was grateful to him.

‘We have stopped,’ he spoke firmly but there was something hesitant behind his voice. ‘We need to know the direction.’

They had no idea, no idea where Abel was. I wondered again what they hoped to achieve. What they were pursuing him for. Whatever their goal it could not be good. They had little hope of succeeding. I had no idea what sort of force Abel had been amassing but he would not be defeated by these few soldiers. No doubt they were only the reconnaissance party but still I felt a flitter as I imagined the kind face in front of me crushed.