Gray poppy

By Ernesto Parrilla

Archimedes approached the electronic provider of information placed close to the virtual tellers
of currencies and supported the hand on the transparent surface. A bundle of blue light covered
the outline of the hand validating its identity. The screen was illuminated of green color.

He needed the records of the last two months on digital publications to mention the gray poppy,
the new synthetic drug that was distributed in slums on the Atlantic Ocean. He mentally issued
the command and the script was transmitted to the machine. Half a second later, the machine
downloaded what was requested.

Archimedes closed his eyes and processed quickly the information. He considered to be
sufficient what it had. Withdrew his hand and checked the bank account. This time had not spent
too much, thanks to the fact that it had reduced the search. The previous time, forgot to define
a parameter of time and the cost of the operation meant a working day.

Through habit, it looked before be throwing to the march footpath. There were very few people
walking around. The tragedy could still be breathed in the air. It had not been seventy hours
before the explosion on the north solar shield. The fear of another attack kept everyone in their
homes. On the airways were seen "flying" large, many of moving companies: people were
relocating, trying to escape terrorism.

While it was walking, he analyzed the information. It stopped to buy a chocolate bar to an
ambulant position. The bundle was not of role of degraded immediately. He could not conceive
that there were still on the market products without this system. Anyhow, he ate the chocolate.
It had not consumed anything in the last twenty hours.

He hurried on. He preferred to arrive at his office before the blackout. He remembered to call
her friend Ouxa and activated the sensory contact. The voice of Quxa tickled him in the head.
He smiled. She was always in a good mood and it was contagious. They talked the whole way.
He liked the silent dialogue that took place in the mind. The mouth could it remains closed for
more important things. Or simply, closed, in its place.

He was inside his office when the blackout left the city in the dark. Eight hours of blackout, as
announced. They needed all the energy they could to repair the damage done by the terrorists.
The reflection of the "repairers" taking off came through the windows. The colossi of glass and
aluminum were propelled to the solar shield, located ten thousand meters high. No one manned
them. They were directed from a central, located inside the palace of government.

The office was spacious. No furniture that would hinder. He preferred the furniture below the
surface. If he needed them, he activated them. For example, at that time, I wanted the couch.
He closed his eyes, gracing the couch, and the mechanism of the false ceramic floor slid to one
side. A platform lifted the leather couch. It was his only luxury, the only one he could afford.
He was dropped. He felt - with pleasure - his body hit the leather. He needed to rest. Since the
explosion he had hardly slept. He was worried about the spread of the gray poppy. Distributors
would take advantage of the fact that all security forces were investigating the terrorist act.

To rest, however, he needed to turn off the mental control device. He pressed gently just below
the beginning of his right hand. He detected each of the embedded keys under the skin and
entered the disarm code. A kind of electricity ran through his body. Now, he could sleep. If he
wanted to talk, he should open his mouth now. If he wanted to call someone, he had to use the
tele- phone. If he needed to acquire information, he should read or listen. But none of that
bothered him. His only terror was to sleep and face a dream. Because in them, nothing him was
credible or sure.

In a dream, nothing of what one knows, has utility. If he fell, he could not overcome gravity. If
he got sick, he could not take medication. If someone wanted to kill him, it could not be avoided.
There was a truth: then he woke up. Agitated and confused, but he woke up. But meanwhile,
during sleep, nothing could prevent the bad thing. What if I could not wake up? If he was trapped
in that world without rules or logic? Just thinking about it made him shiver. Not having control
of reality made him desperate.

He was practically asleep when he felt the explosion. When he opened his eyes, everything was
red. More than red: a crimson color as suffocating as it is shocking. He felt a tremor beneath his
feet and even his hair shuddered. He saw the same color in the window. Fragments of objects
fell, all with a flash of fire like an aggregate tail. They seemed to fall in slow motion, as if time
were stopping second by second. Instinctively he tried to activate the mind control device. He
searched his arm but did not find the subcutaneous keyboard.

His concern grew. The device was not where it should be. He went to the window and looked
up. Now the fragments fell faster. The sky seemed to be crumbling. Another terrorist attack?
The ground moved. First a jolt, then another. The ceramic floor beneath her feet began to crack.
Archimedes tried in vain again to activate the mental control device. He ran for the door. He
reached for the latch and the floor disappeared. It began to fall and around him fell the door,
the ceramics of the floor, fragments of glass A few meters, between remains of masonry and
aluminum, also fell the couch.

Was screaming. His throat ached from screaming. His body would crash in a few seconds, against
the mound of debris. But he kept falling. He turned his head and everything was red. I could no
longer see the couch, the door, or the glass. He was still falling, but now he was staring at the
sky, moving farther and farther away. A red sky, strange. And in the other direction, where the
ground should be, something more frightening: an infinite and deep darkness of the color of
blood.

Scream.

So strong that his mother ran at his side. She was there when he woke up. She held his hand and
caressed his son's forehead. The light was on. The color of the walls was white. It took him a
while to understand. They were the walls of his room.

Archimedes felt pain in his right arm. He was hurt, as if he had scratched himself with rage.
- Again the nightmare that you travel to the future? - asked his mother, looking closely at his
son's pupils.

The young man nodded.

- The doctor said to write down everything you could, before I forgot you - his mother reminded
him.

It was not necessary to write anything down at that moment. He could remember every detail
of that dream. But anyway, I should do it later. It was the only way he could tell his doctor what
he had dreamed of.

His mother caressed his head.

- I go to the bathroom to find bandages for your arm. Press the button if you need me.

Archimedes nodded in response to his mother's lips. Deaf and dumb, those lips were the voice
in his head.

He closed his eyes and remembered the images of his dream, which always ended in nightmare.
A fantastic world that crumbled atrociously. I had a terrifying desire to live that vision again. The
part where he could do everything with his mind was enough reason to take the risk. However,
there was a second part of the dream that he wanted to avoid.

Because when he had the other dream, he saw himself in the dome of the solar shield, placing
the nuclear explosives that would destroy everything. The boycott of your dreams, in your own
hands. And he could not help it. Just as he could not change his condition either. A couple of
tears crossed his face. A hand wiped them gently. He opened his eyes. Beside him was his
mother, hugging him affectionately.

He felt safe there. Safe from everything, far from that intense crimson. From that world that was
falling apart. From that world that he shattered every night.

- She's still sleeping - her mother said, after curing her wrist and kissing her cheek.

- Thank You Poppy - Archimedes wanted to say, but his lips barely contracted. Instead, he gave
her a smile.