TANTALUM / Chapter 2
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When you breathe out your last grains of air your body becomes the enemy.
My eyes and mouth clamp tight but dirt and tantalite fill my panic cracks. Nose clogs, eye burns, and mouth muds mix with kept down feelings held back. Fack a hackspit and it all comes out.
Tell anyone your life isn’t your own—you get “If I wanted your opinion, I’ll give it to you.”
Tell anyone meaning has no life here—you get “Who do you think you are—some kind of Socrates?”
It takes a live burial to get me to admit my dead emotions.
The isolation under this collapse crushes me. None of this life matters.
Tell anyone you don’t want to live anymore—you get “Others not born here would trade places with you in a shovel beat.”
The ones above digging don't know my thoughts. Don’t know my feels. Tell one and everyone knows. Keep it all air-tight. The Tower could cut off my food, water, and shelter if they saw my brain. Find the others first, please. Then call off the search. Let a crane shovel pull me out dead—after the sun shadow shifts.
People dig at a collapse mound to save face. They dig with one eye on you, and one eye on The Tower. They have that crimpled head skin and oxygen clock face on display. The watchers are watching us. Who watches the watchers?
Mom, Dad, Uncle Benjamin, Aunt Jemmy, cousins Johnny and Lisa: all killed-off. Everyone keeps three shovel lengths away from me. Those
with Intact family members: six shovel lengths.
My isolation fills the pit. Fills in the morning call. Fills in breakfast. Fills in break time. Fills in Lunch and Afternoon break. Fills dinner. Fills lights out.
It took years for my ears to hear about how The Tower Keepers overlord this pit. They maintain the central tower—a tall stone sleeve situated in the middle of the mining pit. At ground level food clothing and water gets distributed. Next level: health services. Third floor: administrative offices. The next several levels contain the security offices. Sort of a panopticon. They can observe the entire pit and worker housing from three-hundred and sixty shovels without being observed. Above security are the mining operations, and above that: retirement quarters for workers who have dedicated their time and energy—and their lives—to keeping the pit functioning and profitable.
Tell anyone you don’t want to live anymore—you get “Selfish. The young are always stupid and selfish. Wait until you get older. If you’re lucky enough to live that long. Then you will see.”
The few that try to dig out others do so because they know an avalanche will come for them one day. Will anyone dig them out?
From up on the rim, a crane will—eventually—get into position over the avalanche site. The carbon laws permit them to operate only as needed. Otherwise: heavy fines. That's why they use us as labor. Lower carbon output compared to machines. Even electric ones need fossil fuel to create the energy. The Tower allows the crew to drop a crane shovel into the pit but crane operators can't tell if the shovel is crushing a victim or not. Many rescued get cut in half by the shovel. So the search and rescue process is a blend of hand and crane shoveling. This approach approach was put in place only after deadly protests: so goes the story.
Tell anyone you don’t want to be found in the event of a collapse—you get “You are family. Of course we’re going to save you. We work for those in The Tower. And one day you will be in The Tower as well.”
It's hard to have thoughts that differ from anyone else. One family removed their son's tongue. Cut it out so he would shut up. These days he’s everyone’s favorite.
A shovel blade hits my face. It shocks me into consciousness. Tantalum rich soil fills the gash in my cheek. Blood and dirt mix wnd scrape across my gums, tongue and throat. Jam my sponge lungs.
My body convulses in this filthy coffin of cack.
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