To Catch a Clandestine Conspiracy

It was hot today. I could tell the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and all that other happy horseshit. But I couldn’t see it, I couldn’t feel it. But I knew it was there because those other senses told me so.

I could hear the city busy beyond the window of my room. The noise of the people on the street below, the merchants hawking their wares, the peddlers calling out to people from their wagons, the hooves of passing horses and carriages upon cobblestone streets. The air was thick with smells of cooking meat and bread and alcohol. The voices mingled together like a stew, stirred and bubbling over a fire.

But I couldn’t leave this room. This little cell in the basement of an old warehouse where no one would ever think to look for me was my only link to the world beyond this four-walled cell. They had caught me with those damnable things they called ‘books’; they had never seen anything like them before! Had never heard of them! It was absurd! They claimed that they were ‘forbidden’, but what could be wrong? They couldn’t know what they were doing any more than a child who has never seen the ocean or a flower or a piece of fine art. What harm could such things do? If they were truly evil why did they allow me to have them? Why didn’t they destroy them if they were truly so dangerous?

My hands shook as I turned another page of my book. The letters on the page blurred together as tears filled my eyes. My heart ached for freedom, for sunlight and clean air and for my family who had already paid dearly for my ‘sins’. My father had been taken from us when I was young and now mother had suffered greatly at their hands as well. Of all those she loved it had been me that she sacrificed most readily to keep safe from this cruel world we lived in.

“Oh Mother! Why do you suffer so? What sins have I committed that you should join me here in this place?” My voice cracked as I spoke aloud to myself, as I cursed my eternal imprisonment in this dark cell beneath an old warehouse in West London where no one would find me and where no one would find her either if they tried to take her away from me now that I was gone, now that she was alone.

I shivered despite the heat of the day as I put the book down upon my lap and wiped at my cheeks with my sleeve leaving behind muddy streaks upon my face where tears had fallen on dirty skin; dirtier than when I arrived here some months ago after being dragged away by men in dark uniforms with pistols at their sides and swords at their hips who had overpowered me easily enough when we fought back against them but not against sheer numbers or brute force for long enough for reinforcements to arrive until finally overwhelmed by sheer numbers that we were unarmed or able to wield our books against them before being captured and brought here to this place beneath an old warehouse where no one would look for us; no one would care about us except those who stood to gain from our deaths; those who wanted us silenced forever because of these books which held the answers to questions none asked; questions that threatened their very power over our lives; over our very souls.

I decided not long after arriving here that it wasn't right: it wasn't right that we should be punished simply because we wanted to understand things more clearly than anyone else around us seemed unwilling or unable to do so. We knew there were great truths hidden within these books that people called 'bibles' and 'koran's' and all manner of other titles yet found it easier to believe what we wanted rather than seek out truth when faced with these things we saw yet could not make sense of despite searching amongst them until finding an answer hidden among pages designed to confuse those who sought understanding while others sought only confusion so they might lead us astray into believing whatever lies they wished us believe rather than what could be proven true by study of these books themselves which many called 'holy' or 'sacred' but which few seemed willing or able to read as anything other than simple stories which entertained children yet left adults in ignorance regardless of how many times we read them ourselves after learning how to read as young children just like every other person around us growing up except for those few like myself who found something odd about these stories despite knowing nothing about their origins or history or meaning beyond what others told us instead of allowing ourselves to discover things for ourselves through study so we might know how best to live our lives instead blind belief in fairy tales designed by others blinded by their own faith in fairy tales designed by others blinded by their own faith in fairy tales designed by others blinded by their own faith in fairy tales designed by others blinded by their own faith in fairy tales designed by others blinded by their own faith...