The End of the Road

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The End of the Road

Photo via PublicDomainPictures under Creative Commons license

Photo via PublicDomainPictures under Creative Commons license

Photo via PublicDomainPictures under Creative Commons license

Photo via PublicDomainPictures under Creative Commons license

Victoria Gruen, Journalist

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The frigid November air dissipated as I stepped into my makeshift cottage. I took off my cloak. It was the only spot of color in the bare, bleak room. Looking around, I sighed. Everything that had happened in the past few years had finally caught up with me.

Throughout history, it has always been the same. Everyone has always wanted power – whether over another individual, a city, or more. When it gets out of hand, the precarious beam that the world is balanced on is misplaced, and the world teeters. It almost never regains its former balance, and is left off worse than before.

In this instance, it happened all of the sudden. I was only 18. I was young, optimistic, and happy. But, like all good things, it came to an end.

It happened one summer night. A sharp knock had broken the peaceful atmosphere. My father stood up, grabbed the knife from the hiding place in the cupboard, and told me to hide.

I don’t exactly remember what happened next – it’s all blurry in my mind – but all it took was a few minutes, and he was being led out the door, handcuffs shining brightly around his wrists. He was led by two men, working for the Executive Administration.

From then on, the name of Romney Wordsworth was no longer spoken.

But the Administration – oh, how I loathe that word – didn’t take just him. They took every man and woman who was “a distraction” from society achieving its “full greatness.” Bibles were gone, along with Austen, Dickens, Locke, Euclid, and every great thinker that had existed on this planet.

They knew, that by tearing those near and dear to our heart, what we believed in, and who would stand for freedom, they were tearing our souls and our resolves to shreds almost too small to repair.

And I was told that “administration” and “dictatorship” were the same thing. That George Washington and Thomas Jefferson were racists who didn’t care about posterity at all. That we were all amazing, equal, and deserving, all because we lived and existed on this planet, especially those of us who were of “color.” No one’s hard work was recognized, and everyone was a winner.

Of course, those of us who were left didn’t bother to think twice.

But I? I was never to forget the feeling of clamping my hand over my mouth, willing myself not to not make a sound.

I knew then that I had to go. Outrun. Outlast.

How could the world change so much in such a short time?

No one should have gotten the power to attempt to control the minute details of our lives. How did the Administration do all of this, without anyone realizing? Did anyone else realize?

It’s been two years now. I’ve haven’t stopped running from the Administration. I know that I cannot survive much longer. My supplies are running low and my shoes are starting to fall apart. The candle is now a mere stub, and I have the feeling that I will flicker out with its flame.

All I hope is that someone – someone – will see this and continue the fight.

As I write – oh, see how my hand trembles! – I hear their boots marching up the path.

I know what will happen. I’ve seen it before. It is too late now.

Translator’s Note: Miss Wordsworth died that day. But before she left this Earth, she cleverly hid her story, and it was found, centuries later, by those who needed to know its contents.

Every tyrant has his own approach to the destruction of freedom – each more intricate than the last – but it has left its brick for the rest to build upon. Like every empire, it relies on the idea that “logic is an enemy and truth is a menace.” This account was of the the future – not a future that will be, but one that might. It’s not a new world: it is simply an extension of what began in the old one. 

John Adams once said that

“Liberty, once lost, is lost forever.”

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