Arcadia


12•15•8993. 14:34.


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      The Abyss is a place I can not choose to go to. It is not up to me. Even if I had the choice, though, I wouldn't dare enter.

     It is a painful entrance and a painful exit. I could face any memory I have or see any vision of the future. I could see alternate timelines or the present moment on the other side of the world. This space takes away every sense I have. I can not hear myself think. I can not tell if I'm breathing or if my heart is beating. It is a complete sense of loneliness and solitude. Sometimes I'm here for a few seconds. Sometimes I'm here for almost a week. There is no gravity, either. I just float, suspended in nothingness, wondering if I will ever escape it.

     It is like an area between wakefulness and exhaustion, between consciousness and unconsciousness, between life and death.

     This is the space between timelines, the space between the past, present, and future.

     The Abyss.

     I just have to wait for it to drop me into time once again.


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     Unaware of how long I was in the Abyss, I am thrusted into its creation with the oxygen being knocked out of me, on my back, and a massive headache. I  cough and wince with pain as I sit up, leaning my throbbing head on my knees. Feeling like I'm going to faint, I interlock my fingers around my legs, and take deep, shaky breaths, hoping that what happened last time will not happen again.

     My mind slows its spinning, and I feel a soft, warm breeze flutters through the air, flicking my short, curly strands of hair onto my freckled face. The breeze carries with it the fragrance of pine trees. I feel small blades of grass poking my bare skin and dig my fingers into its foundation as if it's my only tie to reality.  I tilt my head up and squint my eyes against the low, orange sun as I begin to stand. The sky is a blended mix of warm colors, and thin, gray clouds are scattered over Earth's ceiling. I gaze out over a small field, attempting to figure out where I am.

     After a moment of scanning the area, I realize that I'm at the Advanced Power Training Grounds. Different stations are scattered over the field; from bows and arrows to memory tests. Daggers gleam. Spears slice through the air. Swords clash. Every eye is studying an opponent or challenge. The grounds are filled with an aura of excitement and power. These are the five hundred most powerful people of my generation. All gathered in one place. The energy is almost palpable.

     When I was eighteen, I was selected to be in the Advanced Power Legion. You are basically told to display your power to the best of your ability in front of a group of about a dozen judges, and then about five hundred out of tens of thousands are selected, and forced, to fight in the wars that have been killing billions for the past fifty years. These wars have killed over half of the human population.

     It's despicable.

     As I continue looking around, my eyes land on a woman about twenty feet away from me who's training with a bow and arrow. I take soft steps through the grass toward her. Her skin is the color of cocoa powder and eyes the color of dark chocolate. The woman's wildly curly hair is hanging down her back, appearing more like a lion's mane than a human hair, and her brown eyebrows are thick. Her lengthy, strong arms provide aid to her weapon, and she takes perfect form before relaxing her left hand. The tip of the arrow slices through the air with a whoosh and arrives at the bullseye of her target. She fully turns and I see a face full of freckles and a tattoo on her arm that reads 'F.1.13.6.T14.03250394.' I reach toward my left forearm where I have the same tattoo.

     She is a nineteen-year-old me.