Summer2022

I was the first, the pioneer. Born not out of a pursuit of attention, fame, or any other ridiculous notion… instead, my desire grew from a simple question. Why would I trust the human hand? Why place the fate of my body in a shaky, imprecise, and flawed creation when there was an alternative? One that was perfect. One that never miscalculated. A hand built by my own. I kept reciting to myself that the tests had been a success. Twenty-four continuous triumphs on human-like mannequins. Yet, no matter how tall I tried to build my walls of courage, crippling doubt persisted to seep through the cracks.

“Next.”

A jarring voice shattered my internal monologue, emanating from an old woman behind the desk. Nervous, I rose shakily from the uncomfortably straight waiting room chair. The monotonous mechanical chorus of beeps seemed almost offended by the receptionist’s interjection, as it halted for a single, soothing moment. I paced directly towards the long, polished wooden desk, focusing solely on keeping my balance as my whole body shook.

“Name?”

“Professor Thomas Morrison.”

“Morrison. You’re here for the surgery, correct? Left leg?”

“No, right. The right leg.”

A thin, grey eyebrow stretched over her wrinkled forehead. “Are you certain? It says here you’re due for a major below-knee amputation on the left leg.”

I was dumbfounded. Was she kidding? Does she think I’m unaware of which god-damned leg I’m having removed? Christ, I designed the whole operation; I built the android with my own hands!

“It’s the right leg,” I stated, bluntly.

She surrendered the argument, and I was ushered into a cold, cramped room by a boulder of a man who ignored all my worried queries.

Hours passed. My palms felt sweaty. The nervousness had evolved into anticipation. After so many solitary years of research and development, finally, I was on the cusp of the future. My creation was flawless, the tests had ensured that; accurate to the millimetre if the parameters were correct. A jolt of fear ripped through me at that thought. The receptionist had said they were planning to operate on the left leg, and if the machine had been programmed to do that, I wouldn’t be able to stop it once it began.

I had to force myself to forget that detail. It was too late to back out now, after all the publicity and coverage. Certainly, she’d just read from the wrong patient’s procedure. I remembered the bold letters on the front page of the New York Times:

FIRST MAJOR SURGERY TO BE PERFORMED BY ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE: FUTURIST OR FOOL?

I had scoffed at that question. Was a man who sought the apex of evolution a fool? I was driving humanity into the next millennium; if A.I. could perform something as complex as surgery, what was the limit to its potential? I envisioned a future of perfect health for the world, where the bounds of human error were eliminated, yet still people had the audacity to call me foolish?

“They will see…”

The door to my hospital room swung open abruptly and in came the same enormous man. His smile did not reach his eyes as he beckoned me onto the bed and pushed me down the corridor. That notion of faux welcome among the hospital staff had become a trend, I noticed. Obviously, they knew once my surgery was successful, they’d be obsolete. An unfortunate truth, but necessary.

The preparation for this operation was unlike any other I’d had. There was no brief of what the doctors were going to do, no anaesthesia administered before going in. Clearly, that would all happen once I was in the operating room with my machine. The large man simply guided my bed down the endless, stark white hallways, before halting at the gleaming, eery operating room with nothing but a bed and my creation beside it. My android looked as impressive as ever, in its spotless silicone and stainless-steel form. I stepped into the room and the door closed quietly behind me. I whipped back around to face the door when I heard the lock click, but concluded it to merely be procedure, before walking to the bed and greeting my machine.

“Hello, my masterpiece.”

It said nothing, of course. It was not necessary for a machine to have a voice. I laid myself on the bed and saw the lights dim in the room as the machine activated its LED head torch. I shut my eyes tight as I tried to steel myself.

At that moment, I felt something I hadn’t noticed before. Straps were fastened around my arms and chest, and quickly my legs too.

This had not been part of the programming. “What are you doing?” I demanded, panicked.

As if to calm me, my machine produced a small, red lollipop from its ‘hand’. It looked at me blankly for a few seconds before a message popped up on the screen on its chest.

“Procedure commencing.”

Heavy, thick horror soaked through my mind as I took in those words. They weren’t supposed to appear until after anaesthetic was administered. White-hot dread penetrated my heart as my creation produced the Gigli Saw from its arsenal. A slow, droning noise picked up in intensity as the tool began to accelerate, approaching my left leg.

“No…” I gasped.

I thrashed against the restraints, annihilating my throat as I screamed and begged. Helplessness suffocated me, pressing in on my body from all sides as the saw broke the skin just below my left knee, viciously snapping the healthy tendons.

“PLEASE, MY SON!” Defeat flowed through my veins as I realised I had resorted to appealing to the humanity of a machine.

The pain was unbearable. It felt as if millions of jagged knives were tearing through every centimetre of flesh on my leg. I felt insanity seeping into the deepest crevices of my mind as I came to accept my fate. The saw met bone, and I felt my vision fading as the pain overcame my consciousness. Beyond fears of having the wrong leg removed, my stomach sank as depression settled in my spine. The world I had envisioned would never come to be. Nobody would trust my invention for hundreds of years to come. We, as a race, would be set back a millennium.

It was almost poetic in a sick, excruciating way. As my vision ebbed, fading into darkness, I prepared myself to awaken to the new dark ages.

“$2.50 a litre? Do these blokes think I’m made of money?” I mutter, reluctantly unscrewing the fuel cap of my Hilux, dispersing an ungodly amount of red dust into the air. Now wheezing, I reach for the pump, “Argh,” I wail, its metal surface scalding my sorry fingertips. Managing to negotiate the heat and place the nozzle into the fuselage, I begin to suck on my now bubbling fingers. Leaving the hose for a moment to fill up, I wander round the front of the Old Girl; her bullbar plastered red with kangaroo gizzards, its crimson tinge reflecting the setting sun. Looking out beyond the servo’s boundaries reveals a desolate landscape, one dashed sparingly with shrubbery and tree stumps. Seemingly a sore reminder of mother nature’s cruelty. I return to mindlessly watch the pump tick up; $23.70, $28.35, $31.22…$152.55, feeling my wallet inch further into the abyss of my blue jeans’ pockets, hoping to escape my reach.

I delve into its depths, but instead, I’m greeted by cool silver; an old coin with its sourmetal smell and coarse rutted edges. My eyes fixate on the piece, its twinkle draws me in, almost inescapable: hook, line, and sinker. The devil on my shoulder begins to whisper its silver-tongued demagoguery, “Flip it. Heads you grab and run… Run far beyond the Sandalwoods and Anadmooka Lilies. Past the bitumen veins, out into the warm orange arms that welcome.” Its seductive spiel serves a red-ribboned invitation. My other half rebukes, “Tails. You continue… You pay what you owe and continue as you were. Turn your shoulder on what could be and appreciate the present.” The Queen’s dull eyes stare into my own, an enticing smile drawing wide upon her face. I move the coin onto my thumb, balanced carefully by my forefinger… and then it rises. Turning. Flipping. Twisting. High into the air, up beyond the kookaburra’s laugh and between the clouds which scarcely paint the skies. But just as swiftly as it rose, it returns to the concrete pad of the service station, and with it a decision, heralded by a metallic, “CHINK”.

Heads.

“Ugh,” I stammer, taking a sudden step backwards. The world sits still, its eager anticipation stretching time.

As I wander towards the neon lit doors of the service station, the electronic shrill of its sensors offer a false welcome. The slow mechanic turn of the rotisserie sausages in the Bain Marie atop the shop counter drowns out the melodic one hit wonder filling the room from speakers above. My eyes gaze across the symmetrical aisles, which shelve an assortment of chip packets and chocolate bars, a confectionary rainbow of sorts. The cool mist of the freezers pours out onto the tiled concrete, through doors left ajar from passing visitors. I saunter over to the corner fartherest from the pimple-studded clerk manning a lone register. The floor below me a treasure map, its clues painted red with outback dirt, X marks the spot. My pocketknife juts out anxiously from beneath the denim of my Levis, awaiting instruction prescribed by the coin.

Face to face. His wispy pubescent, thick-rimmed glasses and greasy, unkept hair almost stereotypical. “What can I do for you today, Sir?” he starts nonchalantly.
Dumbfounded, I open my mouth, but words remain absent; can he not see me brandishing the knife in my hand? Or does he simply think I’m crazy? Maybe it’s both… Maybe I am? “I’m gonna need everything in the register, and I’m gonna need it right damn now,” I finally blurt out breaking the silence.

“Alright, Sir, give me one moment and I’ll have it all right for you.” How is this guy so calm with a knife inches from his jugular? Is there something I’m not getting? As perspiration begins to pool atop my brow, and the collar of my shirt tightens around the skin of my throat, the young teenager fails to bat an eye, his drooping eyes drift aimlessly.

Eventually he caters to my demands, with a brown paper bag whose contents matter no more than tomorrow’s weather or this evening’s dinner. I snatch the monies without complaint, the face of the clerk emotionally stagnant, no livelier than the name badge on his pocket, both seemingly drawn on. His neck swivels to follow my gaze as I make my hurried exit out of the store’s entrance, its once welcoming chimes now ones of farewell, grateful to see the back of me.

That’s when I see it.

The determiner of fate. Completely and inexplicably altered. “That’s not… there’s no way… it was just,” I ramble, my brain attempting to make sense of the visuals my eyes describe. A painting of deceit, disingenuity. One which wholeheartedly governed my actions, removed choices from my control, rendered me a puppet on strings. I look around for familiarity, the $2.50 petrol, the blood splatter, the cheap neon signs, all there, all constants. Except it. The other side of the same silver.

Tails.

The sour black bread mocked everyone’s fatless bodies whilst imitating the sky above. It didn’t last on anyone’s plates for more than five seconds before being engulfed in a matter of one breath and two bites. Swallowing was always the most torturous part of the meal, because it was followed was an intestinal quench for more which resulted in the usual empty pain for knowing the answer to your stomach’s yearning needs. They all had only one thing in common, a shared level of targeted hatred towards them for reasons to do with the luck of the draw that is birth. Other than that, the only similarity was the general stereotyped appearances and striped clothes.

Ruben Adler used to live properly, before he was forced to survive, or inevitably die. An honest shoemaker from Norway who knew everyone in his hometown of Nesodden. Loved by all as the kind cobbler who made your shoes. Now he goes as 79074, a shadow of the person he used to be and a part of a less loveable place somewhere in south Poland. He slept below 79075 and in front of 79076, both of whom were considerably younger than Ruben himself, both of whom remained nameless. But he believed in the old him, who was about forty pounds heavier, spreading his contagious smile.

“What are your names?” whispered Ruben to his bedmates. 79075 looked at him through dull, sunken eyes as if he were caught between life and death.

“I don’t think I am allowed to say,” he croaked.

“Don’t worry, I just want to know your name, maybe bring back something human in us.”

Their slow pulse echoed against the dark brick walls and pounded painfully against the back of their heads as 79075 contemplated. “…Kahn,” he hesitated.

“It’s good to meet you, Kahn,” smiled Ruben, as a sense of the old cobbler flurried back into him.

“And you?” Ruben asked 79076, a young girl whose pale skin and bony cheeks gave a much older impression.

“I’m, I’m Anna,” she stuttered.

“Well, I’m Ruben. I lived in Norway in a town called Nesodden near Oslo…”

“Do not talk!” shouted a German guard at the doorway, who weighed more than Ruben, Anna and Khan combined, despite being a relatively lean man. “Shut-up and go to sleep!” exclaimed the guard.

Ruben was drenched in hatred. They stripped every ounce of humanity from him and as soon as he began to feel a sparkle of life again it was merely stolen. The three went to sleep, with the usual emotions of fear for whatever tomorrow held, and a dash of hope, which I suppose is what makes you human after all thought Ruben.

A loud gong ricocheted around the room, eventually piercing Ruben’s ears, leaving an echoed ache tremor through his delicate bones. It was the signal they lived on, it meant a variety of everyday things: wakeup, lineup, work, eat, sleep. They lived off this prolonged sound as if every gong drowned out their pitiful bodies. It was the only stimulation in their hopeless lives as they fell deeper and deeper into the Führer’s hands. God. Puppet-master.

“Awake!” yelled a guard, “Clean and drink!”

Tasteless tea was provided after everyone had had their so-called ‘wash’. Ruben drank slowly, he was now used to water burning his dry palate, as it fell into his routine. He met Kahn’s eyes, who shied away immediately, wanting to avoid any sort of pain that wasn’t scheduled into his day.

Gong. It hurt more this time as it vibrated around Ruben’s skull.

“Roll call,” yelled a fancier guard.

Each number was called out with precision and efficiency, waiting for its counter part of a hoarse reply.

“79074,” called the fancy guard.

“Yes,” coughed Ruben.

“Make your way over there,” said the guard as he pointed towards a large door of which Ruben had never been through. He strutted over with a slither of interest. Waiting were a few other prisoners, including Kahn and Anna. Another guard ushered them through and around the building with Ruben, Anna, and Kahn at the back of the group.

“What do you think we will be doing over here?” said Ruben to Anna, trying to spark up some sort of conversation to break the deadly silence.

“I think we will be working in the kitchens today,” replied Anna through a very subtle and rare smirk.

“What is so good about the kitchens?”

“Sometimes, when the chefs aren’t looking, I eat the vegetables, or the bread. But just a little bit,” whispered Anna.

The kitchen was an exhausting white room mainly filled with large soup pots. There were three chefs and a guard at each door watching the prisoners. Ruben was set to stir whilst Anna chopped up the vegetables and Kahn added them to the pot. The three worked well together as Anna, like she promised, ate the occasional chopped carrot, making sure to check all angles before-hand resulting in a successful feeding every time. Ruben copied the young girl’s technique and after a couple of reluctant scared attempts, eventually buckled up the courage to satisfy his lonely stomach. Kahn was not impressed, although Ruben could tell he wanted to eat something as well, but he was too anxious about getting caught.

The group moved onto the fifth soup pot by the third hour in the kitchen. Ruben and Anna were full on carrots whilst Kahn’s stomach rumbled louder and deeper every second.

“Go on, Kahn,” encouraged Anna, “We’ll make sure no one is looking.”

“I can’t, if they see me, I’m…”

“…here just take this.” Ruben handed Kahn a baby carrot and Kahn shoved it in his mouth without hesitation, like ripping off a bandage just to get it over and done with.

A loud German, “HEY,” fired across the bland, white kitchen. Ruben’s heart sank as if held by a rope that was just cut from its anchor and Kahn’s face mimicked the white walls around them, turning an impossible shade of white.

“YOU DO NOT EAT THE FOOD!” declared the guard as his loud footsteps clanked down, reverberating against the walls leaving every step behind him with ominous control and power. He made his way over to the group, raised the underside of his rifle and bunted Kahn. Ruben could hear the young sunken-eyed boy’s nose crack, piercing his skull and leaving him lifeless on the dreadful kitchen floor, all for eating one small carrot.

Gong. The work shift ended for the day, leaving Ruben and Anna mortally stunned. But the sound didn’t even feel real anymore. The pain was replaced with artificiality. As if Ruben was no longer human, he felt as though he should care for Kahn more than he did. But all he could do, and feel is what he was made to. An empty person with an empty stomach. Forced to survive. A puppet.

Finally. After passing my test, finishing all my hours, with Mum right beside me, it was time to get myself my very own car. My first car. It seemed like just the other day that I was in primary school learning about the dangers of the road and to always look both ways before crossing the street. “Left, right, then left again,” I’d repeat to myself routinely while I waited to cross the road to get to school, with my time and safety at the mercy of those big metal beasts that ruled the roads. All it would take was one driver having a bad day, to take me out of this world forever. Mum always told me that as an Aboriginal boy I had to be extra careful on the roads, just in case some crazy old white fella decides to take after his forefathers and turn me into the black tar underneath his wheels. I never understood why someone would even think of committing an act like that, but as I’ve grown older and more educated in the history of my people it’s become clearer and clearer that some people still aren’t letting go of the past.

Our house is part of a small region only about ten minutes outside of the local town here in countryside Victoria, so I decided to walk into town to the local car dealership and take in the beauty of the Watha Wurrung land that my people have lived in for millennium. The beautiful bushland that’s a home to hundreds of little creatures, undisturbed by the commotion of the town. I hadn’t felt excitement like this in a long time, like electricity through my veins. Nothing could ruin this day. After one of the quickest ten-minute walks of my life, I’d made it into town, but something felt off. It only took a minute to take in my surroundings when it struck me. I was quite literally the ONLY person of colour, let alone Indigenous person in the whole town! My family never really came into town when I was younger, and Mum never gave me a clear reason as to why… but it was all starting to make sense now. My excitement over getting this new car distracted me from my peculiar observation, and my walk turned into a light sprint as the flashing signs of “Robinson’s Cars” called my name from the end of the street. From what I’d heard it was a family-owned business that’d been operating for decades and was quite well known around the area.

Entering the shop was like something out of a movie. The smell of oil and rust lingered around the store, with low dimmed lights outlining the silhouettes of at least a dozen different cars that had been shoved aside once they could no longer fulfil the needs of their impatient owners. At the front desk I could see two white men who looked to be on the older side of, I would say, their fifties. One of them was a short, stocky man, with a face similar to that of a Pit bull, and forearms that would make Popeye jealous. The other man (assumingly his brother) was much taller and had more of a slender frame. He wore thin spectacles that rested atop his crooked nose, and had a sly look about him, like he was ready to cause some trouble.

“Are ya lost mate?” the stocky man abruptly queried, with a smug look on his face.

“No, I’m actually looking to buy a car,” I said as I showed them the bundle of cash that I had saved up from working at the IGA, plus a little extra that Mum had kindly provided. As soon as they had processed what I just said a smile spread across both of their faces simultaneously, and they turned to look at each other with a grin that would make you think I’d just told them the world’s funniest joke.

“Didn’t know you blokes knew how to drive!” cackled the tall man.

“Thought you all just went walkabout!” the stocky man added, hysterically.

I could feel my hands balling up into fists and tears starting to dwell in my eyes, but I couldn’t let them win. That’s what they wanted. “C..Can I please just buy a car and leave?” I said sternly, trying to hide the raincloud of emotions that was forming inside me.

“Fine. But we charge extra for blackies,” said the stocky man as he looked at his brother with that same grin that went from ear to ear. I was seeing red. Why did Mum not tell me about the people in this town? I only had just enough money for the car that I wanted. It was a small Toyota Corolla that was about $5,000.

“I don’t have any extra,” the anger clearly audible in my voice.

“Those shoes look nice,” said the stocky man, “and that phone will do nicely as well.” Reluctantly I handed over the money and the requested items, just to get the car and get out of that hellhole of a town. After what felt like years speaking to those awful men, I had the car, and I was finally leaving.

I got in and sat on the warm seat of my new car. Finally. Was it worth it? Probably not, but I was happy to get away from those two spawns of Satan. As I was driving off onto the busy main road, I saw them watching me from outside the shop. Proud of their comments and scam art. I looked back to face them and gave them a most passionate body gesture. Their faces turned quickly from smugness to horror. I thought it seemed like a bit of an overreaction, until I turned back around to find myself staring into the eyes of an oncoming semi-trailer.

As the last rays of sunlight danced across the crystal salt pans of Lake Torrens and, in the east, the Flinders Ranges dimmed to a crimson red, a chill descended on the parched earth. The camels lay calmly and softly huffed as young Abdul stoked the fire lit by his Uncle Faiz. Faiz rested on a rug, smoked his hookah and leafed through his battered Quran, quiet and reflective in prayer. Abdul squatted and enjoyed the warmth enveloping his weary body. The warm fire brought memories of home in Punjab with his mum cooking him paratha on the open fire. He missed her dearly and after his father’s death, he knew it was his duty to bring money to his family in India and this would be accomplished by the commitment he’d made to his uncle.

“Loosen the tethers on the camels and prepare for the night,” instructed Faiz. “We need to leave before dawn.”

Abdul loved the camels and felt connected to these half tonne ungulates as they carried huge cumbersome loads in the blazing hot sun, day after day. The camels offered immense comfort and protection in this harsh, unforgiving desert. Abdul detected Faiz was restless tonight, weighed down by the responsibility of delivering the supplies from Port Augustus to the formidable Thomas Elder, pastoralist at Beltana Station. The Government insisted that the telegraph line be built by 1870 and Thomas Elder had taken it upon himself to achieve this come what may.

By dawn, the sun cast an oppressive heat haze as seven camels, heavily ladened with essentials for the Europeans’ trudged onwards. Occasionally, along this route Aboriginal people and cameleers would cross paths. Abdul loved these encounters as the Dieri people would guide them to water holes or share food they had hunted. Both unwanted, unwelcome and uninvited in the European settlements.

By late afternoon, Abdul was desperate to get to the Beltana Waterhole and allow the camels to drink. As they plodded down the hill there was a plume of ochre dust as Thomas Elder cantered up on his black stallion shouting, “About time you got here! You black Ghans, hurry up and bring the supplies to the shed and unload. And don’t go near my waterhole tonight! I am tired of your smelly lot using all my water; you’re sending it dry.”

Faiz and Abdul worked efficiently unloading large rolls of wire and bolts under the scrutinising eye of Thomas Elder. From a distance a girl watched on and when she could catch the eye of Abdul, she’d give him a smile. Abdul craved to speak to someone his own age, yet he dared not interact with Mr Elder’s daughter, Matilda, for fear of being flogged. Matilda was careful not to be caught by her father and when Abdul and Faiz were leaving she gestured to a box near Abdul. He reached down and found a warm package wrapped carefully in muslin cloth.

The weary cameleers set up camp on the boundary of Beltana and devoured the fresh bread. A small blessing on an otherwise harsh day.

“I am furious Mr Elder won’t let the camels drink at the waterhole,” Faiz said.

“We will leave at sunrise and find the waterhole we visited with the Dieri people,” Abdul suggested to calm his uncle.

As sleep overwhelmed Abdul, he set his blanket near the lead camel and felt cocooned by her warmth. Suddenly, the camel’s body stiffened. Someone was coming. An ominous figure emerged from the cover of darkness as Faiz leapt to his feet. “Who is it?” he questioned.

“It’s me Thomas Elder,” the figure declared whilst stepping into the firelight, his face looked ashen and worried. “I need your help, it’s my daughter Matilda; she is gravely ill. I am worried she has dysentery. You must get me a doctor from Marree!”

Faiz stood eye to eye with Thomas and declared, “We can’t ride the camels tonight; we will get lost, and they urgently need water.”

“Please. I am desperate, she could die,” pleaded Thomas.

Thoughts of his own sisters in India compelled Abdul to step forward, speak up and take on the task. “Uncle, I really want to help; Matilda is a good person,” declared Abdul.

Abdul set off with the moonlight guiding him.  He hadn’t gone far when he discovered a tribe of Dieri men around a campfire. He instantly recognised the eldest as the Healer. Both Abdul and the Healer were familiar with one another having crossed paths many times. Abdul beckoned to the Healer and through etchings in the sand communicated the dire situation of Matilda’s illness. With a nod of his head and with his pouch filled with leaves and berries, the Healer climbed aboard Abdul’s camel and made the journey back to Beltana.

Ignoring the night-time curfew, the Healer and Abdul hastily headed to Elder’s homestead.

On sighting the two, Thomas’ anger reached boiling point. “What have you brought me, you useless boy! I wanted a doctor. What use is he?” he bellowed as he poked the Healer in the chest.

Amidst all the commotion, Matilda staggered outside and collapsed like a rag doll in front of them. Thomas let out a guttural wail and collapsed inebriated on the lawn bellowing, “She’s dead, she’s dead!”

With that, the Healer gently carried Matilda inside and placed her on the floor. From his pouch he pulled some Emu Bush leaves and using the warm water on the stove, mixed the two and began to gently spoon the mixture into Matilda’s mouth. All night the Healer and Abdul spoon-fed her the medicine until the fever had passed. By dawn her strength had returned and as she sat up, she placed her soft, porcelain hands on top of the rugged, earthy hands of her two saviours and smiled. Without a sound, Abdul and the Healer slipped across the front lawn, stepping carefully around Thomas’ body and rode back to the boundary fence and periphery of their allotted existence.

Raindrops race down the glass window as I gaze out into the forest of skyscrapers which litter the Tokyo skyline.  The sky, devoid of the sun’s warmth, casts bleak shadows into the office, falling upon messy desks and discarded coffee cups. An ensemble of printers, staplers and the sporadic rustles of paper quell my thoughts. The faint outline of a distant sun, enveloped in storm clouds, drifts through the sky into darkness; a glitter of artificiality assumes control over the night sky. As lawyers, secretaries and janitors congregate like ants at the elevators, my focus shifts to the portrait which stands beside papers on my desk. My focus is captivated by her slim figure and tender brown eyes. Her wicked smile entices one of my own, and I reminisce over the life we shared. Then I glance at my children, who lay snuggled between us – their toothy grins, identical clothing and brown eyes warm my chest. But as I gather my thoughts, my sense of joy evaporates, and my mind casts back to the day I got the call three months earlier. I attempt to make sense of it all: the metal torn like paper, the repugnant scent of blood, the piercing cacophony of sirens, and the epileptic show of flashing lights. That abstract entanglement of steel had once resembled a car. Now it sat crushed and obliterated in that junction alongside my will to live. As the fire department wrestles with the wreckage and retrieves three mangled bodies; grave looks permeate the paramedics’ poker faces as they search for a pulse.

Then I return to the present, just as usual. Overwhelmed and sweating; the sounds of the office have long ceased. I gather myself and take the elevator down to the lobby, before walking out into the frigid winter air, making a beeline to the nearest bar. As I arrive, I take a seat in the bar, out of place in such formal attire.

The bartender looks to me questioningly, “What can I help you with?”

“Something strong.”

A concerned look brews across his face for a moment, but he obliges and pours me a drink. I wasn’t certain what time it was when I left the bar, but I did leave with a large tab, a bottle of vodka and as a happier man for a few hours. But as proven before, my demons always return. The streetlights captivate me, stumbling past pedestrians who still crowd the streets at such an ungodly hour. I arrive at the office again and swipe my card, re-entering the lobby which has long since been deserted. I take another drink and enter the elevator, accelerating up to my office. Up here, I pondered, seemed just quiet enough to hear the audible whispers of mice as they scavenged amongst paper scraps for crumbs. I stumble to the desk, grab the photo frame, and hold it up into the light. I smash the frame and take out the photo, sensitive to the contours of the paper. If only I had gone home early that night. I could’ve prevented it all. It was my fault. It had to have been.

I take another generous drink from my now depleting reserves, stumbling into a desk, and knocking over a computer monitor. I take the stairs up to the roof, each step posing a new challenge as I begin to discover the true extent of my intoxication. Suddenly, I break free through the emergency exit onto the roof and bathe under the freedom of the open sky. Lonely stars which dot the night sky seem to compete for supremacy amid a blanket of satellites. Fake grass lines the roof top, and artificial light blinds me. Then something unexpected happens. It begins to snow. Images of Christmases spent in ski lodges and nights in front of fireplaces flood my mind. Christmas carols, real or not, begin to play, and I go to take another drink, only to realise it’s empty. In the fit of a drunken rage, I smash the bottle into the roots of the fake grass.

My wife takes my hands, and we begin to dance under the light snowfall. Just as we had at our wedding, and then at Christmas; one step forward, one step back, two step forward, one step back. A smile grows on my face, and a tear wells in my eye. In utter captivation, my feet trace themselves towards the edge of the precipice, where they meet. Hesitating, our hands become separated.

She teases me and continues to drift away. “Come on you!”

On my last step, my feet search for roof, but meet air. I feel the rush of wind consume me. Everything had seemed so fast before: school, marriage, kids, death. But as I fall, and city lights merge into a fluorescent blur, time slows, and I am granted peace before sudden darkness. It doesn’t scare me though, not like it used to, and as I bask in darkness, drifting away from existence, I find myself on the beaches of Okinawa, and the grandness of the cosmos comes into being. The sky, which had once been grey, is painted with colour once again, and as I stare into the wide reaches of the Milky way, I know that this is not a journey I will take alone.

The narrow street caved in on us, letting in only a fraction of moonlight past the tall buildings. It was unusual for me to not see the moon; back at home I would. We hadn’t seen a single person since we left the apartment. It was empty. The street lamps were on, but the light was minute, except for the bright red glow at the end of the street. As we approached, foreign murmurs grew louder and louder, proportionately to the glow. It was the first sign of life in a while and I was getting impatient. My stomach felt like it was going to cave in on itself.

Ella’s stomach began to grumble along with mine, as she dragged her feet along the bland bitumen, stumbling towards the red glow like the undead. “So, a new place for dinner tonight?” Ella asked Mum.

“Yep, something a bit more local,” Mum replied with a smile.

“Ok, I’ll have to trust you.”

The scent of a sweet Xiaolongbao seeped around the corner at the end of the street and steam clouds struggled to escape upwards past the entrapping buildings that sealed off the sky. The red glow we were heading for was only a few meters away and the murmurs were no clearer than before. The source of the red glow was a hub of human efficiency, where plates of hot steaming local Chinese food flew from kitchen to table in a matter of milliseconds; where friends and family congregated to shout across tables and where plates of food became pieces of art. Some may even say it’s the origin of the infamous fast food, but others just call it a Hawker Centre. Three separate neon lit stalls, in aggressive competition for customers, shared a tiny tin roof which was barely standing. In front of the stalls stood multiple red plastic tables and chairs full of locals.

“Oh yeah! I haven’t been to a Hawker Centre yet. Thanks, Mum,” I screamed exuberantly.

The shouting and murmuring ceased as all eyes darted towards us in the centre. The air was still. The silence was only broken by a squall of stall workers who rustled through their cupboards in search of something.

“Càidān zài nǎlǐ”- (“Where are the menus?”) – a stall worker exclaimed in Mandarin.

She must have been blind because an enormous stack of red menus, that could almost push the thin tin roof off the stall, towered over her. We sat at an empty table; chairs screeched as the locals moved away. By now most of the gazes had died off and the shouting began to start again, but an unfamiliar tension was still floating around amongst the steam trapped under the roof. A flurry of stall workers flooded towards us, as if they were racing each other. The stall worker who couldn’t find her menus earlier, got to us first and placed a blue menu in front of me. I glanced at the other tables around us…their menus were red. Scanning the menu for any peculiar signs, I noticed something. “On what planet is a serving of four Har Gow 90 yuan?” I whispered to Ella.

Without even looking at the menu Mum starts to order the food, listing off all our favourites. One by one, the food rolled out swiftly, sizzling steak on the hot plate, Xiaolongbao and Har Gow in the bamboo steamers and, my personal favourite, San Choy Bow in crisp chilled lettuce leaves.

I reached for my San Choy Bow and the second I did the stall worker turned and shouted to her stall in Mandarin, “Wǒmen dédàole tāmen, ná chū báichī de zhàngdān,”- (“We got them, bring out the white idiots’ bill.”)

Another stall worker waltzed out of their stall with the printed bill and dropped it in front of Mum. Her eyes lowered to the bill’s total, forcing her jaw to drop to the floor.

“700 Yuan for four dishes – is this a joke!” Mum exclaimed.

“No, Maam that’s the price on the menu,” the worker replied as she chuckled.

I turned around to look at the red menus on the table behind me and the Har Gow was 40 Yuan for them, not 90 Yuan like our menu said.

“I won’t pay this; I’ll pay the real price but not this.”

The worker stormed back to her stall in response to Mum. We quickly finished our food, placed the real amount on the table and started leaving. The stall worker came back, collected the money and furiously muttered under her breath in Mandarin,“Tā mā de wàiguó rén,”- (“Damn Foreigners”).

I turned back, locked eyes with her and said in Mandarin, “Jǐnjǐn yīnwèi wǒ shì báirén bìng bù yìwèizhe wǒ wúfǎ lǐjiě nǐ…” – (“Just because I’m white doesn’t mean I stupid…”).

Washington D.C August 1963

“Independence Ave,” the white capitalised letters gleamed in the foreground of the lime-green trees. All around me, towering objects, Mum, Dad and all these strangers. The sun penetrated through the morning dew; my woollen clothes encase the warmth. I placed my hand in front of my face attempting to grasp the mist created by my breath. I directed my attention to my surroundings and became particularly interested in the symmetrical formation of the white tiled bricks used in the footpath. Skipping along joyfully, my sister raced off ahead.

In the process of travelling in the direction of a suitable lunch site, I glanced over my left shoulder and could clearly see the luscious green plains leading to the throne of contemporary diplomacy, Lincoln’s Memorial. At precisely 12:35 pm, I was alleviated of the mental strain attributed to vigorous and unnecessary sightseeing and placed the pale wiry legs attached to my figure effortlessly in a casual meditation position on the nearest wooden bench. With the smooth fashioned timber pressing up against my poorly defined calves, the focus centred on the possibility of a splinter. Scrambling, I leapt to the rough, pebbly ground before retaking my previous meditation pose and regathering my composure. Allowing my concentration to wander freely through a sea of thoughts confined to my mind, I practised the calming meditation instructed by my pensive nurturers. From thoughts of the succulent chicken and lettuce sandwiches I was anticipating consuming, to the constant dark-coloured groups of people protesting near my house, my mind was a maze of confusion fuelled by the curiosity of adolescence.

As I assumed, my mother produced a variety of homemade sandwiches from a sturdy straw basket as well as an assortment of drinks to quench our thirsts. While consuming one of the many luxurious delicacies, I noticed the presence of families all around me among the trees. Families like ours. Generic white middle class families, the stereotypical working father, stay-at-home mother with two perfectly dressed children. All enjoying the tranquillity of the location as well as appreciating their time with family. However, in the distance I perceived one family secluded from the rest. With distinct darkened features and timeworn garments, it was apparent that they were a part of a lower socio-economic division of society. I had often overheard my parents remark about the disparity in living conditions between white and minor races, attributed to their poor work ethic, lack of social sophistication and their lethargic attitude to education. Nevertheless, I researched into the matter, in the process adopting far more socialist attitudes and consequently empathised with their lack of available opportunities and systemic discrimination.

“Mother,” I exclaimed, “Why does everyone sit so far from that family over there?” pointing towards the coloured family in the distance.

“Well, darling they’re different. As you can see their skin colour is black and you know we’re lucky. Don’t you worry son, those lazy thugs will never get in your way,” my mother replied critically.

Disgusted with the belittling tone my mother had used to describe the African Americans, I decided to approach the family. The dark coloured family was sitting away from the rest of society, a mere minute walk for even someone of my small stature. As the inevitable moment of contact approached, my heart started skipping beats, cold sweat trickling down the front of my neck, whilst small marble pebbles slipped from under foot. Now only steps away from the family, I could unmistakeably recognise the amount of imperfections and flaws in their clothes.

Overcoming my nervousness, I gestured to the father figure to gain his attention. “Excuse me, Sir, but I was wondering why you sit so far away from everyone else?” I asked inquisitively.

Instantly, his darkened features appeared incensed with his eyebrows distinctly raised identical to a bull ready to charge his target. “You have a real nerve kiddo, don’t you? You come over here to talk to us while protected in your cocooned life of privilege,” he replied with a bluntness.

Taken aback, I was left dumbfounded, unable to conjure a reply. I hadn’t expected that response. Obviously, my adolescent and innocent intentions had registered with the dark coloured man when he decided to reassuringly place his large rough hand on my right shoulder. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke just then, it’s just that I thought that every white person was the same. Come follow me, I want to show you something, he apologised.

At this point I had been separated from my parents and was unsure whether to follow the dark-coloured man. Although my parents had warned me not to follow strangers, I felt a certain connectedness with this man and trailed only a few feet behind. After heading in a Northern direction across West Potomac Park, we crossed Independence Avenue SW as the Lincoln Memorial came into view. At this moment I heard it, the chanting, shouting and chaos. After continuing to travel through the trees and past the distinctive silver soldiers of the Korean War Memorial, that is when I saw it. Thousands and thousands all bunched together. Thousands and thousands of black people protesting. Astonished, my legs continued automatically forcing me in the direction of the mob. My guide had long since abandoned me to join the rally himself, but I continued, desiring to understand the situation. It wasn’t long before I was alongside the proceedings, able to comprehend the significance of the demonstration. “End segregated rules in public schools!” the crowd chanted. “Equal rights now,” boomed over the pool, foregrounding Lincoln’s Memorial. One figure in particular seemed of specific importance. Elevated, he stood in front of a lectern, with the Lincoln Memorial visible and started to speak. I have never forgotten those four words. “I have a dream.”

The sun was beginning to near the rough tree line of the campsite when a white ute pulled in, sporting defence number plates, nothing overly interesting on an active army training area. It became slightly more interesting when a man stepped out, not wearing the normal cadet AUSCAM, but the defence force MULTICAM. His short, buzzed hair was covered by a cap, a subdued Australian flag velcroed onto the front of it. This guy was clearly Army. We all glanced at his rank, making sure that he wasn’t important and here to yell at us for giving each other bush mullets with crappy scissors and knifes in the middle of the night. A quiet sigh released from the troops as we realised that he was only a sergeant. The sigh cut quickly into a gasp as we saw him pull out of his ute tray a 12-gauge shotgun, used for breaching doors and ripping huge holes through walls, and a silenced MP5, a 9-millimetre submachine gun used by Australia’s top counter-terrorism teams to serve and protect our country. Maybe he was just a bit more than regular Army?

Twenty minutes passed before we were told to do something that confused all of us. We were told to stand in a semi-circle facing the muddy gravel road leading onto Artillery Road. Then we just waited, none of us having a clue what was going on, a recurring theme throughout this camp. After a while a muggy haze of blue smoke rolled into the campsite. Not fog, not fire smoke, but the vibrant haze of a smoke grenade. Then we heard the engines. A steady yet aggressive roar that grew louder by the second, reaching its peak as the three quadbikes sped into the campsite, throwing gravel this way and that. Atop each of the quadbikes was what initially appeared as a bush. I quickly realised that they were men, perfectly camouflaged to the point that I could have walked over one in the bush and not have batted an eyelid. Each of which walked to the back of their quadbikes and pulled out large, camouflaged sniper rifles. The man from the ute walked to the front and began to explain. These snipers were from the SASR: the Special Air Service Regiment, Australia’s top special force that specialises in counterterrorism and direct action. Also, my dream job.

We stood in a semi-circle, surrounding these heroes of our country, staring in awe at their cam-creamed faces, better concealed than each of their top-secret identities. Their ghillie suits were intricate sculptures of vegetation and camouflaged lacing, wrapped carefully around their gear belts and webbing. We listened to the things that they had done, the stories that they had to tell and, most impressively, the talents that they had. These men that we stood not five metres from could put two bullets into a 50-cent coin from more than 800 metres away. The feeling that this knowledge brought us was completely unique. A signature blend of pure ecstasy and fear ebbed and flowed through my body, knowing that these guys that we were having a casual chat with could kill us from so far away that we wouldn’t hear the gun shot. Their quadbikes were covered in a similar tapestry of sticks and leaves to their bodies. From below this artwork they showed us night vision goggles, firearms, and kit that they used to survive while in the field. The semi-circle collapsed after a short while, morphing like the shapes and colours of a kaleidoscope into tight groups surrounding each of the men. They handed around their weapons and answered our questions.

“How hard is the selection programme to join?” I asked.

“It is hell,” the man responded. “It isn’t the physical side that makes it so difficult. Obviously, it’s really tough to be able to work that hard, but it’s mainly a mental challenge. When you’re on Day Ten, and there’s no skin left on your feet, and you still have twenty more kilometres of hiking in the mud and rain before you get to rest, you will want to quit.”

“Do you have any tips for making it through?”

“Yeah. Number One, you just have to want it. You have to want it more than anything that you’ve ever wanted in your entire life. If you don’t, you’ve got no chance. And Number Two, remember, they can’t actually let you die of exhaustion. That creates too much paperwork for them.”