First Draft Chapter 1

My mind is clearer now.  At last.  All to well I can see where I have been.  And what it means.
The recent death of a good friend served as a sort of cleansing.  All the clutter in my mind was put into sharp focus.  It was given meaning.  He was more than a good friend; he was the best friend, the best human being, I ever knew.  He was one of the many victims of the violence that has been all too prevalent.  He was one of too many.  His name was David.  I knelt by his torn body as he passed away; I felt the last links to my childhood disappear.
I took a trip abroad from which I have just returned.  It was nice to get away from Urbae if only for a little while.  I doubt I shall ever get away permanently, although I long to.  I was more than surprised about how little they knew abroad concerning what had happened in Urbae.  In fact I was absolutely shocked.  At the time it enveloped my whole life, and the rest of the world had been oblivious to our plight.  It was suggested to me by one fellow I encountered abroad that I might undertake to write down what actually happened.  I have decided to undertake this task.
Being a central figure in the events that have unrolled, my account will be essential to those over seas seeking to understand what happened to Fabula.  I have dreamed often as a child that I would be remembered forever by history.  What child has not? Now, that I have undoubtedly achieved those dreams, I feel as if I must construct my account most carefully.  In addition to my memory, I have faithfully kept a journal since I was very young.  I have also saved all the correspondence I have kept with friends and other acquaintances over the years.  A stack of letters written to me is sitting on my desk.  Copies of letters that I sent out are in the desk drawer.  I always make copies.
Anyone who has kept a journal, a detailed journal, for an extended period of time, as I have, can tell you what a time commitment it can be.  Each day, I try and write down the events of my life, trying somehow to fight against time.  Trying to hold onto the memories of when I was young.  But I digress.
I flip through the journal.  The journal goes all the way back to when I was twelve, and my memory goes back much further.  And my memory teems.  In my mind are swarming over each other legions of people.  Not names, but people.  People I have loved and cared about, and laughed with, and laughed at, and have been angry at, and have betrayed, and on and on and on.  However, I fear, as all writers fear, that they will become simply names on paper to my reader, and not the people I know so well.  I wish the reader could know these people as well as I knew them, as individuals.  That is, of course, impossible.
I sit down to write, and as I search my memory, I arouse it.  And once my memory is aroused, it bursts forth with people I have known fighting with each other to achieve prominence on my paper.  They cry out to me in the -- In the hundreds even? Yes, in the hundreds they cry out.
"Do not forget me!"
"What about me? Do I not deserve to be mentioned in your story?" And yet, cold hearted I must cut them out.  I could never include them all.
Another question assails me.  Again, it is a dilemma that all writers face.  I have so many stories to tell.  So many stories that are really only one story.  So much excitement that I am confident the overseas readers will be thrilled with.  And yet, none of it will make sense with out the set-up.  And what part of the story is more boring then the set up? I must describe who my father is, and what he did for a living, and what kind of a world I grew up in.  I must describe the relationship I had with all of the people who will soon be so prominent in my story, and how I met them.  Must I even describe the political system I grew up in, and the history of Fabulae? I think I must, for I discovered when I was abroad how little everyone knew of Fabulae.  My story would not make sense without any of this, and yet I am fully aware that it is the most boring section a reader can hope to come across.  The dreaded set-up.  It is boring for me to even write about it.  I can not risk losing the reader so early in the tale, lest they become bored with my set up and close my book, and then it does not matter at all how interesting the rest of the story is.
And so, I look for an exciting point to begin.  And I find one all too easily.

In the beginning were the police.  And the police were with the state.  And the police were the state.
I was fourteen.  The world to me back then seemed incredibly small compared to what it would become.  I was bubbling over with something.  Was it anger already? I was not confident.  In fact, it was at a time in my life when I felt less confident than ever.  At the same time, proving to everyone that I was confident became of the most extreme importance.
I remember the day distinctly.  It was a summer day bursting with energy, the kind of day one only experiences when one is young.  It is not uncommon for us to have summer hot days in Urbae, but this day was different.  Cool.  A breeze, but nothing too much.  The kind of day that just makes you feel like running.
Ah, but even here I can not get away from the set-up.  The reader must understand about the police.  Police is a generous term.  That is not what we called them.  In my experience abroad, I encountered a much different view of the police force than I had in Urbae.  The police in other nations are often a benevolent institution, there to protect the people from the thieves, tramps, murderers, and the desperate.  The Urbae police existed, and no one was confused about this for a second, to enforce the order.  The police were there to keep you in your place.
Granted the police in Urbae would go after the thieves as well, and beat the murderer and the tramp senseless, but they always did it out of a sense of maintaining order.  Their order.  They and the Duke were on top, and they made sure no one forgot.
Strat.  I shutter to think.  Do those abroad not know of Strat, whose name every schoolchild in Fabulae would recognize? I must not make that assumption though, they know so little about us overseas.  Strat was one of our past leaders, renowned for his cruelty to his own people.  He loved the police, and to this day they have retained his name.  Strates, we called them.  Never to their face, for even they are ashamed by the cruelty of Strat.  (At the time, the police did his bidding quite willingly, but history has shown him for what he really was.  Those who refuse to learn in the present have no choice in the light of history).
But was that too much set up? Forgive me reader, I hope you are still with me.  I promise more excitement to come, just stay with me.
I passed the Strates’ station.  Was it anger at the Strates that surged up in me then? That was part of it, no doubt.  I was only fourteen though, much greater was the desire to see the awe of my classmates.  One of the Strates was standing outside.  He nodded his hello to me as I passed by, and I mechanically nodded back.  He took off his hat, and set it on the window ledge next to him, and ran his fingers through his hair.  He was tired.  He walked over to a bucket hanging from a string, and began to drink from it.  He knew he was a Strate, and I was not, and he never dreamed I would dare defy him.  I stared at the hat.
What did the hat look like? What does it matter reader? What does it matter if the hat was like a helmet, or like a cap? What it looked like is not central to my story, let it look like what ever you, dear reader, want it to look like.  Know only this, that it was black, and the mere sight of it terrified me.
You must understand the fear these people inspired in me.  I was deathly afraid of them as a young child, as if their touch would end my life.  By the time I was fourteen, I was beginning to realize there was flesh and blood underneath those uniforms after all.  Human beings, and human beings are fallible.  And now, I had to test that fallibility.  I had to prove to myself I could beat the Strates.
I would have loved to sit there forever and debate with myself the advantages and dis-advantages of my intended action, but I had no time.  Water gushed from the bucket into his mouth, it spilled down his cleanly shaved chin and onto the cool brick road.  It was a long drink, but it would be over any second.  I sprang into action.
I snatched the hat and turned and ran.  Ran.  I'm not sure at which point he noticed me, but I could hear his heavy footsteps pounding behind me soon enough
Imagine, if you will, the humor in the situation.  I am running as fast as I can, knowing that if I get caught I will be horrible beaten.  My fourteen year-old legs are taking me with all the speed they have in them.  I am small, skinny, squirrelly and quick.
But he is running as fast as he can too.  He knows if he doesn't catch me, he'll have to report to his superior he lost his hat.  He'll be held in disgrace.  It will go on his record.  Maybe his pay will even be cut.  They are very strict.  He is probably about twenty-five.  His legs are much longer than mine.  He is faster than me, but I had the head start.
I am running wild, my arms are moving faster than my legs, as if that could somehow speed me up, and out of his reach.  And out into the main street I burst, and I turn and run, and I've got so much momentum I can hardly turn, and he is right behind me.
I can't even feel my legs anymore, and I am terrified, and it is the greatest feeling I know.  My numb legs carry me through the street, and past all the set up shops with merchants selling fruit and meat and clothes, and he is getting closer.  Every second he is getting closer.
And up ahead I see my salvation.  The road comes to an end.  A building on each side of the road, and a wall between these two buildings.  A brick wall, but it has space underneath it for the sewage to run.  It is a small space.  I am still small enough to fit through it.  He is not.
There is filth, sewage, and who knows what underneath the wall.  It is disgusting, but I can slide on it.  I go under on my back, keeping the hat next to my breast, careful not to soil my prize.
My relief is cut short on the other side.  He has found a way to climb over the wall, and I have bought myself time and that is all.
And we resume.  I am running as fast as my fourteen-year-old legs can take me, and he is pursuing, and he is gaining.  And I am terrified, and it is the greatest feeling I know.
In a desperate attempt, I turn off main street, not knowing what I will find.  I am running down an alley, and at the end of the alley is another wall, a wooden one this time.  There is no way under this wall, only over it.  Boxes of trash lie near it.  I leap onto the boxes.  I fling the hat away to free up my hand, not having time to reflect on what I have lost.  Escape is all that matters now.  I spring towards the wall.  My hands grab the top of the wall, and the sharp points cut into my tender palms, but I don't even notice.  I am pulling the rest of me up, and I can see the other side of the wall.
Then I am stopped.  He has his hand around my ankle.  Instinctively, my other leg swings out, and my foot strikes his head, and the rest of my body twists as it follows my foot.  I lose my grip.  We both fall.
He falls into the trash, on his back.  I land on my feet and run.  I am almost out of the alley before he even gets up.  Then I stop, and go back.  I know it's foolish, but I can't lose now.  I grab the hat, and start running again.  He is up now, and he swings at me with his club.  I dart out of the alley.  He takes another swing and I continue running.  And I am terrified, and it is the greatest feeling I know.  But he is not following me.  I look back and see him limping from his fall.  My young fourteen-year-old body trembles with excitement, and the thrill of victory.
Now where to go with my new prize? David of course.  There was always David.
David lived only slightly away from the heart of the city.  His house was a little off of main street, packed in with all the businesses.  It would appear to the casual observer very much like David's house was just another business front.
I side passed the door to his house like I always do, and went around to the side to rap on a small window.  David's room was located in the basement of his house, with a little window on his wall that was level with the street.  I knocked on the window, David looked up from his desk, and he climbed onto his bed so he could reach the window.  He pulled open the window, and I climbed down into his room.
"Hey Dave, how are you?" I asked cheerfully.  I had never felt better.
"I’m good" David was in that sort of a mellow mood he was always in after he had been reading for a while.
"What are you reading?" I nodded towards the book.  To be honest, I couldn't have cared less, but it seemed like the polite thing to say at the time.
"Nothing" David said, as he closed his book up and put it away.  "So what brings you here Jon?"
I had the hat hidden in my shirt.  With a very deliberate motion meant to build up the suspense, I slowly removed it.  David's face reflected his surprise.
He gasped in awe at the hat.  Neither of us said anything.  And then, finally, "You're insane."
I could see the admiration in his face.  I could hear it in his voice, although he fought to keep a scolding tone.  I had done the impossible.
"You're crazy," David said again.  "How did you--what if--" David cut himself off in silent admiration.  Then his face broke into a smile.  "You are incredible man".
I returned the smile and slapped David on the back.  I had proved the Strates were human.  Everything was doable now.
'This is nothing, man.  I'm going to get myself a whole uniform."
"Hey, watch out," David warned.  "You got lucky this time.  Next time you may not be." In his voice even then there was a different message.  With his eyes he said, "Man, you know you can do it."
I was excited.  I was a hero.  The excitement was too much for me, I couldn't stand still anymore.  I shouted and we were out the door and into the street, running and shouting to each other.  We were fourteen.  We were still boys really.  We desperately wanted the world to change, wanted any kind of change, good or bad.  At the same time, lurking in the back of our minds was the belief that things would never change.  They had not changed ever, as far as we were concerned.  Why should they change now?
I arrived home at ten.  The day had been well spent with David, and I was exhausted.  My house was walking distance from the city, but still a little bit removed.  In contrast to the brick roads and business buildings that surrounded David's house, my house was surrounded by grass, trees, a lake and a stream that trickled into it.  Well manicured bushes stood side by side.  A small flower garden existed, with every flower perfectly in its place.  It was a lawn stinking of order.  I hated it.
I took the stolen hat, and carefully hid it in the tool shed.  It would be safe their for a couple days at least, before my dad went out there.  In the mean time, I could move the hat back into my room sometime when he was not home.  Or better yet, I could bring out a book sack to put the hat in, and bring it into my room right under his nose.
I went inside.  I was hungry.  There was mud caked on my face.  I was exhausted.  I walked down the hallway into the kitchen.  The light from the kitchen attracted my father.  He snuck up behind me.  "Home late again, Jonathon?" I jumped, startled.
And now I can postpone it no longer.  And so, dear reader, what I have saved you from at first must now be revealed.  The dreaded set up.
Fabulae is the country I live in, although I have seldom traveled outside of Urbae.  Twice, I think.  Twice had I traveled outside Urbae by the time I was fourteen.  I hate this dreadful prison.
Urbae is the capital city of Faulae, where all our wonderful democracy takes place.  Ah, what a joke.  It would almost be funny, if it hadn't turned out to be so horrific.
Yes reader, what took place in Urbae was not a democracy, although it once had been.  How did it crumble? What economic and social factors lead to its demise? Reader, I think I speak truthfully when I say neither of us cares.  It is only important to know we were once a democracy, and now we are not.  We have not been for almost one hundred years.  All the structures and names remained the same.  We had a Senate elected by the people, consisting of one hundred members.  And these Senators every year elected a President from among themselves.  And these Senators had absolutely no doubt in their minds each year that if they did not elect the Duke, every one of them would be killed with in the week.  The duke held all the power.  The Duke was supported by the army, the navy, the Strates, all the institutions which held power.
Of course, "the Duke" was not his real name.  It was a rather affectionate name that came from his father, who was a Duke by tittle.  We called him Flash, as in "Old Flash".  The Duke was not terribly old, only slightly over fifty.  As children, that seemed old to us.
And what was Flash's real name? To be honest reader, I never found that out.  And it doesn't matter.
My father was one of the Duke's men.  His fourth in command, to be precise.  Was I proud of my famous father? No, I was not.
My father was forever submitted to the Duke.  He did whatever the Duke wanted him to do.  In my view, my father had no mind of his own.  It was, I thought, as if the Duke had two bodies, having taken over my father's body as well.
And I was next.  And I hated that.  I was supposed to follow my father's footsteps in service to the Duke.  Everyone knew that.  My father knew that and continually reminded me of it.  The Duke knew it and would sometimes talk to me about how he couldn't wait to work with me when I got a little older.  I did not want to work for the Duke.  More then anything, I resented having my future planned out for me.  However, at the same time I knew it was the only job with a future available to me.  I resented this job all the more this, but I could not get away from that fact.  Serving the Duke, that was my future.
"Home late again, Jonathon?" Yes reader, we have come crashing back into the story.
I am too tired to debate the point.  "I'm sorry Dad.  I lost track of time.”
I braced myself for it.  The onslaught that always accompanies my misbehavior.  The "You better shape up and learn how to follow directions.  You're going to be with the Duke some day." None came though.  My father must have been too tired as well.  He sat down wearily in the chair, and invited me to come and sit at the table with him.  "School starts pretty soon now, doesn't it?"
I sat down next to him.  "Yes, Monday."
"Are you ready for it?"
"Yes."
My father reached for his alcohol underneath the table.  He brought it to his lips and slipped it.  I always marveled at how he could keep a straight face drinking that stuff.  My face went into all sorts of violent contortions as soon as that alcohol entered my mouth.  My father had a taste for strong drinks, and what I didn't realize then was the years my father had spent building up a tolerance to that stuff.  It was not pleasant for him at first either.
"Am I going to have to meet with your teachers this year?"
"No sir."
My father took another drink.  "Good, because I'm mighty sick of that.  You stay out of trouble this year, okay?" I nodded.  He drank again.  "I don't know why I even bother.  We had this exact same conversation last year and it didn't seem to do you any good.  You realize why this is important, don't you?" Ah, here it comes.  How foolish it was for me to expect I would get out of this speech.  He took another drink, this one longer than the first three.  "People know who you are.  You realize that don't you?" I nodded.  "And when you persist in making a jackass out of yourself at school, it reflects badly on me, reflects badly on the Duke.”  There was silence.  Another drink.  "You realize that, don't you?"
I was annoyed at having to answer the same question twice.  "Yes."
The annoyance had forced its way into my voice.  My tone of voice caused my father's head to turn angrily towards me, interrupting the flow of alcohol into his mouth.  "Well maybe you can act like it this year then." We sat in silence as my father took another drink, put the cork back in the jug and replaced the alcohol under the table.
"So how was your day" he asked.
"Good."
'What did you do today?"
"Nothing."
"You didn't do anything today?"
"No."
Now he was fed up with me, and I knew what was going on in his mind.  He was thinking to himself, "I try so hard to have a relationship with this kid, and he doesn't want to have anything to do with me.  The ungrateful welch."
But I had just had my behavior reprimanded, and was in no mood to spill out my soul to this man who had been scolding me seconds earlier.
He stood up.  "Well, do you have anything you want to tell me before I go to bed."
Feeling sufficiently guilty now, I volunteered something in the way of conversation.  "I hung out with David today."
My father stretched.  "Oh, and how is David doing these days?"
"Good."
"I haven't seen him in a while.  You should bring him over here more often."
"I'll try.  We live kind of far away from everything though."
"Yeah, I know."  And that was adequate.  Neither of us wanted a long conversation.
"Well, I'm going to bed now," my father said, putting his hand up to his face as if to indicate how tired he was.  "I have to get up early tomorrow, unlike some people."  I didn't reply.  I didn't know a reply was expected.  My father turned back when he was at the stairs.  "Right?" he prodded.
"School starts Monday" I said defensively.
"I know.  Don't sleep too long tomorrow.  I've asked Abel to wake you up somewhat early, so don't stay up late."
He meant well, but I was planning on going to bed soon anyway.  The fact that someone was now telling me to go to bed only annoyed me.  "Good night," I called back.