Fiction
We Live in the Blue Ruin
A story about a world with no pain, and no memory of what came before
1. The Preliminaries
You are permitted 20 things from the old life before the move. Fingers count. Single eyelashes count. A breath does not. Breathing is a given. Antiseptic is forbidden. Bones, you can have those. Don’t bother with your voice — it’ll be removed in stages. Besides, no one speaks inside The Blue. People always forget about skin even though it’s the one item they’ll invariably need — how else will you hold yourself together when you enter The Blue? Baffling. Pairs are a technicality — feet, hands, kidneys, ears, and eyes — you may keep the plurals with some restrictions. For example, you may retain your feet, but you’ll have to make tough decisions regarding the toes. Eyes may be preserved, but sight isn’t guaranteed. We’re not unreasonable people, but there are limits to our generosity. Some of The Originals try to invent loopholes, they lobby for shared items and fractions — if we each preserve 2.5 fingers we’ll have an entire right hand! We have to remind them that while they may leave together, they go in alone. The only math up for discussion is subtraction. Know that you will become a passenger in your own body. A thick darkness will cover your face.
