The world was going to end. For definite. And it is all my fault.

 

Barbed wire surrounded a patch of land in the forests of Arnovia. That is where I live: Arnovia. All buildings are made of ivory coloured brick with grey adornments. All the same. No change. The roads crumble underneath your feet and the smell of chemicals surround you as you walk. Large army bases take up most of the room, green domes always in the skyline – or what is left of the skyline. Years ago, the two countries of Arnovia and the Constitutional Republic started a war against each other. For years, the two countries fought and blood baths covered the battle field. Thousands of people perished and both countries were left in rubble. Arnovia’s position moved into the dark forest, based around military and science. All teenagers are either trained in the army or in the lab.

 

I am an army trainee. Newt. Newt 75. That’s my name. In Arnovia, no one has proper last names. Everyone is given a number. Children are given a one-digit number, teenager’s two-digits and adults are given three. We are the new generation of Arnovians. We are expected to pick Arnovia off the floor and make it the superpower it once was.

 

As I walked across the city to work, the same grey skies and ivory buildings met me. The road crunched into smaller pieces, each point scraping the bottom of my boots. Some buildings never got the chance to be rebuilt in glory, so large piles of rubble separated the queue of cloned buildings. The place was now a playground, as lots of little children screamed and laughed as they kicked dust and rocks at each other. ‘Stupid kids,’ I muttered to myself. President Snowden’s voice blasted out of the megaphones, perfectly placed in the streets so you could never escape his voice. His morning speeches were always boring: don’t leave, be nice and do your job. I have heard it so many times I could recite it in my sleep. Every day was the same in Arnovia. I picked up my pace as I realised I was late.

 

By now, the clouds had been replaced by the cold stab of twilight. The city was now silent, except for the fizz of electricity that radiated from the barbed wire – and me. All of the army trainees were in their beds by now but I take the time to admire the dark skies protecting us from danger. Finally, the sight of my house came into view. My house was exactly the same as every other house, except for the clothes hanging out of windows. A crunch of leaves broke my silent mind. I swiftly spun back in the direction of the sound. A silhouette crawled into the light of the street lamps, his groans of pain becoming louder and louder. As I creeped closer, I saw his face. It was a human – a man – an old man. He had a brown cloak covering his head but I could see his sharp wrinkles. ‘Help,’ he whispered his voice crackling as he spoke.

 

If there is one thing you should know about Arnovia, it is that they are strict with boundaries. No one is allowed to leave and no one is allowed inside the city if they are not a citizen. Both the Arnovian and the refugee are put to death. Even a sixteen-year-old is not let off for these crimes. ‘Leave him. You will get into trouble.’ My thoughts screamed at me as I stared at the man. I knew it was wrong but I walked forward. I got as close to him as I could. ‘Please. Get me over the fence,’ he whispered, his voice shaking as much as his body. My mind flooded with thoughts: how do I get him over? I can’t break the rules! I should leave. But I didn’t. I climbed onto the roof of a nearby house, my nail clawed into the panelling. I glared at the tall tree only centimetres away from the fence. If I jump over and land on it, I could get him and take him in. But if I miss… The world flashed into a daze. I felt my feet land on a branch, the bark cracking under my weight. Pain slithered rapidly up my legs as I clambered down the tree.

 

After much struggle, I managed to get him on my back and carry him over the fence. My heart pounded in my chest, threatening to burst. ‘Thank you, kind boy. Thank you,’ he whispered, grabbing my cheek. I carried him to the abandoned town hall, which after the war had collapsed and even after it was re-built, remained highly unimpressive. I visited him every night after work, but as each visit passed he deteriorated before my eyes. Strange marks were appearing on his arms, creeping up his neck like ropes of green and deep purple, tightening around his life every minute. After a few days, he died, clutching onto my hand. Even though he had made me commit a crime, this didn’t stop tears from racing down my cheeks. All I could think of was the words he told me. ‘It will all be over soon, my boy. Don’t blame yourself.’ I shuddered in the cold night, his words repeating in my mind like a broken record.

 

The world was different today. The sun was shining brightly through the windows of my house. In 25 years, the sun had never danced over Arnovia before. My eyes hissed at the bright light. Something else was different: I couldn’t hear the hubbub of the working day go by outside my house. There was no shouting, no talking, no morning announcement. The world was silent. Or so I thought. My eyes squinted again as I stepped out of my house. As my eyes adjusted to the light, my heart stopped.

 

Everyone on the street – mothers, fathers, grandparents, children, shopkeepers, everyone – was bent over on the ground, their knee-caps digging into the crumbling tarmac. Coughs and splutters encompassed my ears. Nothing would make them stop. As I glanced closer, I saw the marks: ropes of green and deep purple, tightening around their lives. It slithered up their necks and arms, attacking them. Many people were already laid on the floor, life escaping from their faces. Their eyes had turned black, no reflection was seen. They looked like zombies, green and purple ropes covering their bodies and their eyes black and soulless. 

 

Realisation hit me like a grenade to the head. The world wasn’t silent: the world was ill. The world was in pain. The world was going to end. For definite. And it is all my fault.