A Map of the World

A Map of the World

by Giao Vu Dinh ’20

Lights flicker.

It’s time to wake up.

My eyes open. I reach for the button next to my bed. The voice silences. My bed begins to adjust to a seating position.

I look around. The same sight I see every morning greets me. White, unfurnished walls. Soft light filtering through the blinds in the windows. The door in front of me opens, beckoning me outside the safe haven of my room.

I step into the closet. A set of newly cleaned clothes lie folded on the shelf. I slip them on quietly and look into the mirror. I admire the outfit that has been chosen for me for a moment, subconsciously tucking my arm behind my back, before stepping into the bathroom.

I step into the kitchen. A freshly cooked plate of bacon and scrambled eggs sit on the counter. The eggs are seasoned with just the right amount of salt, and a hint of pepper. I take a sip of orange juice and gaze at the window in front of me.

The outside awaits. The sky is hazy with morning. The lawn is freshly mowed, the flowers sprinkled with dew.

I step out onto the sidewalk. I’ve traveled the same roads for so long they’re like a second home. Small, uniform homes scattered around the streets. An expanse of gray, narrowing on the horizon. One path beckons, as it always does.

I pause. I consider.

I reach for my pod and turn the dial. A few moments, and then a melody comes to life.

—-

I travel down the same road I always do. Footsteps fall beside mine, but I don’t look up. I reach the small row of shuttles at the end of my street, and step into the one at the very end, pressing my hand to the sensor at my side. There is a beat, and then the engine whirs to life. I glance at the thin glass separating me from the rest of the world. The street shrinks before my eyes as I am lifted into the air. All around me, so many buildings, so many shuttles, so many travelers. And yet, silence.

I arrive a quarter before nine. I step out onto the busy street. All around me, lights flash. Colors dissolve before my eyes. A description of the newest cure for boredom sits in the windowsill of a nearby store. The scent of coffee wafts from a nearby store, already brimming with customers. A brightly lit building up ahead, with the faces of those experts at covering their imperfections plastered on its windows and a crowd lining up in front of its doors.

A darker corner, a path off the rails, isolated at the edge of the road. It beckons me, but I turn away. I step past the lights and the darkness and the glamour and the madness, and turn the volume of my music a little higher, and settle into a world of my own.

At long last, I arrive at my destination. I stop in front of a tall white building, with no posters on the windows and no big words on the walls. I press my hand into one of the many sensors in front of me, and a small whirring opens the wall in front of me.

Rows and rows. Whirring, beeping, breathing. I take my place, reach out for what’s laid in front of me. Boxes and boxes of things unused, ready to be sent to their owners. I pick up a small bauble, decorated with snow and leaves and glistening ribbon. It gets tossed into the bucket at my feet.

Little cartons of tiny figures, all dressed in white. A little cooking set that someone will never use. Shiny, worthless coins. One object after the other. Thump, thump, thump.

I work. The work is monotonous, they say, but get it done fast and you’ll be able to move on.

My hand lingers on the last object in the pile.  A small, ornately shaped bottle. Its design is more intricate than anything I’ve seen before. Swirls etched onto the glass, a few cracks in the cork stopping the mouth of the bottle. It rattles as I shake my hand. I peer into the glass. Through the glass, a faint outline is visible, a darker line running down the palm of my hand. My attention turns to within the glass itself. A small boat, floating on invisible waves. Masts drawn, anchor up, ready to set sail. For a moment, I want to reach into the glass, bring it out of its captive home. Then the moment ends, and the bottle goes thump.

—-

A tray lies waiting for me in the next room. I pick it up. A square of rice, a cut of unidentifiable meat, a spoon of gravy. A bowl of soup sits on the side, paired with a small glass of cloudy liquid. I reach for the drink first, feeling it hit the back of my throat and downing it all in one go. A small shudder runs through me. The world becomes brighter, if only for a moment.

A slice of meat, a spoon of rice, a dab of gravy. Spoonful after spoonful, until there is nothing left. I wipe the tray clean with the back of my hand. Into the disposal it goes.

I make my way over to a small opening in the wall at the far end of the room. There is already a small line. I wait my turn. I wave my hand. I step through the opening.

Boxes and boxes. Piles and piles. Thump, thump, thump.

I work.

—

The sky is dark when I finally step outside. Lights flicker all around. The streets are full, bustling with activity. The day is over. Everyone heads home.

I wander.

I make my way through the busy streets. I take in the bright signs surrounding me, but their meanings pass me by. Cures and toys and smiling faces. A crowd in front of the building plastered with the beaming, perfect faces. A pair waits for a late-night drink at the corner of the street. A group shoves their way past me, hands pulling hands into the night. I clench my hand behind my back. I walk on.

These roads I’ve travelled so many times before. They seem to stretch on into the infinite horizon in front of me. I cannot see where they end, but I know where they lead. It’s the same place I always go. No matter which corners I turn, no matter which roads I take. I always end up at the same place.

The edge of town. A small abandoned railway. Rusted tracks, empty station. No announcements of boarding times, no rush of wind before the tracks rattle with the force of an approaching train. At least, none that I’ve seen before.

Nothing exists beyond this point. Nothing that anyone knows of.

No one knows about this place. Every night I attempt to bring myself home, and every night I find myself wandering back to the train station. I’m always alone. There’s never anyone else there. It’s just me, staring off into the darkness, wondering if the train will ever come.

I never stay long enough to find out.

There’s nothing there, they say. Go back to your home. Sleep. You’ll feel better in the daytime.

You will only be able to find it in the dark.

I visit every night. I always intend to stay. Something always urges me to go home. It’s safe there. Safer.

I never see the train.

Is there a train?

Is there a way out of this town?

My mind brings me home. My feet bring me elsewhere. I walk.

—

I step onto the platform. But for once, I am not alone.

A single other soul waits. I pause. I stare. They cautiously wave at me.

I take the empty seat beside them.

A crack runs down the side of their face, to match the line on the back of my hand.

After a moment, I incline my head in greeting. They nod back, their eye peering at my curiously. They gesture towards the train tracks, as if to ask, are you leaving too?

I don’t respond. I turn and look at the tracks in front of me. They’re rusted over and covered in a thin layer of dust. Unused.

I think of my bed at home, unmade and ready to be used. Ready for me to come home.

I look at the tracks. I sit in silence. I wait.