Fragment 001 - Rifles, Pigeons, and Masks

“Life is full of strange absurdities that, oddly enough, do not even need to seem plausible, since they are true.”

I do not see. I do not hear. I do not perceive.

Darkness. Silence. Emptiness.

I do not understand. Where. When. Why?

Question. Answer. Nonexistent.

Hiding place. Body. Emotion. Skin.

Object.

“Hah!”

Suddenly I wake up, my senses returning to function after a moment I cannot describe.

I am lying on the ground with my back touching something cold. Above me I see only the sky, darkened by a series of hostile clouds.

“What…?”

I move, trying to get up. Only then do I realize that I had been lying on some kind of road: not asphalted, but made of compacted gravel.

Where am I? And how did I get here? Yesterday I went to sleep in my bed as usual, so I should be there, not in the middle of this road.

Did I suddenly become a sleepwalker? That’s all I needed, added to the myriad of problems that already afflict me in terms of personality. No, I am sure that, even if I were moving without control from my brain, I would still be afraid to go outside during the night. Assuming that it is night, the clouds do not reveal much…

Strangely, I am quite calm, perhaps because I have already understood that this is one of my usual dreams, where nothing makes sense. The last time I ended up in a sulfur mine—I have no idea why, I have never seen one with my own eyes, so… how can my mind imagine it? Anyway, it was empty, there was no living being inside, and I admit it had turned into a disturbing situation.

If I were aware that this was not a dream, I would already be crying in fear.

I look around and confirm what I had already experienced. There is no one, just me, this road, and those completely cracked buildings.

I take a few steps; I do not know why, but I have the feeling that one of these buildings could collapse at any moment.

Gray. Ugly. Scary.

They look so fragile and unstable that no one would ever think of living there—except ghosts. As if they existed… they cannot exist, right? But this is my dream, so it reflects my imagination, and since it lives in my mind, anything could appear. Okay, I am starting to worry.

These dreams feel real; I cannot escape this place just by slapping myself. I have to wait, just a few minutes. This has already happened to me three other times before—not many, even though the first one terrified me to death. I did not know what to do, and all those sounds…

Wait! Are those rifles? I approach very calmly, remaining anonymous even in this place. At first glance they seem real; I do not know if I intend to touch them. I mean, they are weapons, and if I press something by mistake I could hurt myself. I know it is just a dream, but I do not know—something tells me it is better to avoid doing reckless things.

I focus on one in particular, but I am not able to describe it properly. I can say that it is long and has a color similar to dark wood; it is also covered in mud and looks very heavy—I do not know if I could even hold it. Maybe somewhere its designation is written, what model it is, or even just the year of production.

I observe it without coming into contact with it. The part facing me seems to have no indication at all, and I do not have enough courage to turn it around to see the rest. Should I give up? After all, I do not know how useful it would be to know these things. I do not know—I want to, but I also do not want to. It is a risk I should take out of responsibility, but… no, better to think about something else.

I can assume that I am in a city where a clash took place. It could be a small local rebellion, although the fact that there is no one around makes me think of something bigger. Still, I must also consider that in the other dreams there was no one either, so it could be something imposed by my mind—and that would actually make a lot of sense.

My subconscious wants to give me the opportunity to explore without any hesitation.

This makes me curious. By now I no longer understand myself: I am intimidated, but at the same time I feel that something about all this attracts me automatically. The mystery, the secrets that could be hidden here—everything feels so alive and so far from reality.

Okay, so goodbye, Mr. Rifle. I cannot save you from all that mud. Sorry. I walk away, leaving it to who knows what fate, until… a gust of wind runs through my hair. The movement is light and not too annoying given my hairstyle, except that along with that breath of sky a newspaper slams into my face, completely blocking my view.

It takes me a while, but I manage to free myself from its grip. Yes, I struggled to win against a newspaper—I am too weak.

I fold it and focus, with a certain curiosity, on the front page.

“OVERRUN AT CAPORETTO: ITALY IN RETREAT”

Caporetto? Is it a city? I can assume so, even though I have never heard this name before now. It could be a small village that had an important moment and is now completely forgotten, therefore impossible to remember. I do not want to think that I know everything—it could exist and I simply do not know it.

In retreat… so this is about an important war? I mean, mentioning Italy means referring to the Italian army, and that means that if my country—one that repudiates war as a means to resolve international disputes—entered a conflict, things must have been very serious.

Even though I do not know if I can truly define it as my motherland. I mean… I have been told that things have changed a lot over the past years, and we are not talking about just a couple of years, but decades. I know nothing about the current governing body that directs the changes in my village and in what surrounds it. Truly, by now it feels like we are kept in the dark about everything.

Kaede, remember that this is a dream. Right, it could all be fake. Better check the rest—there must be important information about what happened in the explanation.

I start reading, not in my head, but with a thin thread of voice.

October 24, 1917 – ITALIAN FRONT

A terrible Austro-German offensive has overwhelmed the Italian lines at Caporetto. The Italian troops, caught by surprise and disorganized, suffered heavy losses and rapidly retreated toward the Piave River. Entire cities of Friuli and eastern Veneto temporarily fell under enemy control.

The retreat, which lasted about a month, left the army in great difficulty, but new defenses are quickly being organized along the Piave. The nation now faces an unprecedented military and moral crisis.

1917?! So… 308 years ago?! Three centuries ago?! What did I just read exactly? Okay, now this has my full attention. If you present me with a topic like this, you do nothing but make me curious, my dear dream. Basically, this is about a war, and from what I can read here, it appears that Italy was on the opposite side from the other two states involved: Austria and Germany.

A glorious war? Or a defeat? This reports a specific event, so I have no idea how the conflict ended. I also find it impossible that Italy declared war against these two countries without having help from someone—there must have been other states supporting it.

And now that I notice it, the emblem is different; it seems to have a royal symbol on it. Does that mean we had a royal dynasty?! Really?! It seems like a fascinating thing, at least on the surface. I do not know if the royals did a good job, and I do not even know whether it was an absolute monarchy or something constitutional. A king with all the power represents an archaic system; by now, people have moved toward a system that gives power to the people.

Strange that school never even mentioned these details—did they decide to remove a part because it was considered superficial? Yet to me it seems exactly the opposite: this is extremely serious stuff.

Wars bring nothing good. They can break out as a protest against something, or as a means to acquire new territories. I do not know what happened in this specific situation, but surely one of the sides wanted to gain something.

In practice, thousands of people must have lost their lives just to move borders by a few kilometers. Does it really make sense to sacrifice lives for such a useless and marginal gain? Is so-called patriotism only for this? To make one’s country proud in front of death? It should not be like that. One should favor a pride that comes from a country’s culture, from what it was, what it is, and what it will be.

Probably all of us are nothing more than the result of a set of populations that lived in a world where conquests were more important than anything else.

I wonder if all of this is true…

“BANG!”

I fall to the ground unwillingly. The newspaper flies out of my hands, getting lost in the harmonious movement of the wind. The shot surprised me with a vibration I did not even perceive.

I turn around, stunned, my gaze fixed on the weapons I saw earlier.

What happened? One of the rifles fired—how is that possible? They cannot do that on their own. Did someone pull the trigger? In which direction was it fired? I was not the target, right? Okay, it is a dream, but I would rather not be pierced by a bullet.

I remain on the ground for a while. I do not move, I do not make any reckless movement. If I really were in their sights, they would have already fired again. Maybe I was not their protagonist, maybe… I hear a small sound beside me, something like a bird’s cry.

I turn just enough to notice that the victim of that shot was right next to me.

The life of a poor pigeon was about to end right before my eyes. I look at it without knowing what to do. I would like to help it, to save it somehow, but the more I look, the more I can distinguish nothing but blood.

A simple sight that triggers a strange mechanism in my body: the trembling of my left leg.

Am I scared? Even if all of this is fiction? Yes—when this happens, it means that something has disturbed me. He… does not move, he cannot anymore, and yet he is still alive, and his eyes are looking at me. Is he expecting something from me?

The culprit. Who is it? A person who shoots an innocent animal should not get away with it.

No one. There is not a single living soul around, no one who can take care of this feathered inhabitant.

Me. I feel horrible. Nothing else to say. “Do you need help, young Kaede?” A voice—something I had never heard before in my dreams.

“W-who’s speaking?” I raise my gaze, but I am not able to see anyone. He wants to help me? Should I accept? And if it were a trick of my mind? If he just wanted to make fun of me?

“Raise your frail body and continue on your path.”

My path? Does he mean within the dream? Why? Why should I? I do not know him, I do not know his intentions.

“I-I can’t, my leg…”

I am not able to get up. I want to, but my limb does not stop trembling, again and again, as if it were following a musical script. Something inside me does not allow me to stay calm.

“Body. You think that is your problem?”

“I don’t know, I…”

“What do you mean by not knowing? Everything comes from within, don’t you believe that too?”

“Y-yes, I-I’m not sure.”

“Denying your certainties. Denying your self.”

“I’m not lying, this is how I am.”

“How so?” I cannot answer. Every time someone asks me a question, something breaks inside me. I do not know how to describe myself. I know my flaws, but nothing else. I do not truly know myself; I do not truly know what it means to be a certain way.

“I don’t know.”

His voice becomes closer. He is approaching. What should I feel, if not fear?

“Are you sure of your choice? Identifying yourself as nothing?”

“I don’t like these questions.”

“Direct. A form—interesting.”

I am on the ground. My body does not dare to move, and nothing seems able to stir it. If the situation remained like this, perhaps my dream could end before some disaster occurred.

Too late. The entity is in front of me. His appearance is something I would have never imagined—in fact, I would never have expected my subconscious to place someone before my poor eyeballs.

He looked as if he had stepped straight out of the yellowed pages of a decadent novel, where the boundary between truth and falsehood was never quite clear. Rather than yellowed, his body seemed to be made of a strange white transparency.

The man had dark brown hair, slightly messy, as if the wind itself had been born to accompany him in his exploits. The strands framed a sharp yet elegant face, softened by amber-colored eyes.

He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit from another era, with a vest tight against his chest and a gold chain that casually descended to a pocket watch. The cloak over his shoulders looked almost like a shadow, ready to swallow him if he chose to disappear.

In his gloved hand he held a white theatrical mask, with a fixed, unsettling smile. Another, identical one hung from his belt.

If I had to represent something that fully embodies refinement, I would speak of him.

I do not have time to react before his hand rests on my head. He strokes me several times, without me understanding why. What does he want from me?

“Abandon your mask.” His tone is calm; he does not seem intent on hurting me.

“M-mask? What do you mean?”

“I cannot tell you. You must discover it yourself. Abandon it.” His tone becomes more serious; something lights up in his eyes.

“I don’t think I’m wearing anything…”

“I said: abandon it!” His voice rises, the first hint of anger becoming audible.

Did I make him angry? Was I able to anger my own subconscious?

His hand…!