De Facto Times

Hadrianides fell astray.

He wandered from the village, his feet crunching the litter at a declining pace as his energy decreased. Before the backdrop of harsh, jagged mountains lay a serene, vacuous meadow of grass, a tree in its center. The tree’s branches reached for the sky and birthed bountiful leaves. Its wrinkled trunk signalled its sagacity. The tree was of idyllic color and stature, as though it had attained a perfect form. And, below some scattered branches, the tree dangled the most succulent, perfect fruit with the tips of its fingers. The tree offered its fruit so confidently, so wisely, and so unquestioningly, that to all that is natural and good, there would appear to be not a problem.

Hadrianides’ head lowered, his wide, glistening eyes grasping the display that had beheld his senses. His feet timidly accompanied his eyes, inching forward toward the tree with an increasing bravery. The fruit was a tad too high for Hadrianides’s youthful stature. And so, he jumped. And again. And again. And then, the final time he pushed himself off the earth with a grunt, he tapped the fruit with the tips of his fingers. It dangled back and forth, tauntingly. Plucking a rock from the soil, Hadrianides hurled it toward the fruit. It was struck, setting the branch in a slow, metronomic bob, and releasing the fruit from the grasp of the tree into Hadrianides’ welcoming hands.

Hadrianides gazed upon the object in his hands and rubbed it with the collar of his shirt. The fruit was staunchly firm and glistened to slightly reflect the boy who held it.

Who planted this tree so far from town?, the boy wondered. Why don’t the townsmen ever eat such a beautiful fruit?

Alas, these thoughts were far less pressing for Hadrianides to answer than his hunger required. Hadrianides took a crisp bite of the fruit. Its juice rushed down his chin due to its abundance. Hadrianides was in ecstasy. The sensation was good. So good, in fact, that Hadrianides felt as though he had done something wrong. Nevertheless, his guilt was overwhelmed by his ecstasy. It was the best ecstasy Hadrianides had ever experienced. Every merry moment, every hardy laugh, every immaculate meal, and every sip of cold water on a warm day—it all paled by comparison; it was all reduced to void upon this new high. The high became meaning itself. All that remained of the fruit was its core and perhaps a little less, its seeds exposed and body lightly dangling from the stem. Hadrianides slowly dropped the remains, desiring another. But for as much as he scanned the leaves of the tree, he did not see even one.

Hadrianides ran through the meadows and woods around the perimeter of the village, searching for a tree of the same fruit until the sun met the horizon and darkness crept over. Yet, for as much as Hadrianides attempted to forage, no such tree could be found. So, he returned.

“Hadrianides, where have you been!?” his mother demanded an answer. “Do not wander out at sunset, you could be injured! It seems even now you’ve been scathed by thorns.”

As his mother wrapped her hand around Hadrianides’s cheek, he wondered whether or not he should tell her about the fruit.

“Tell me, Hadrie, to where were you brought?” she repeated.

“I found a tree. A fruit tree,” Hadrianides informed his mother.

A slight concern washed over her eyes.

“Oh, really? And where had you found this tree of yours?” she continued.

Hadrianides roughly pointed the direction out with his index finger. His mother’s forehead creased and she squinted slightly.

“You didn’t eat the fruit, did you?” she asked as she tilted her head to her right.

Hadrianides’s heart fell and his cheeks flushed. He broke eye contact with his mother and gazed off to his right, shaking his head in the process.

“Hadrianides! Don’t you lie to your mother. Did you eat the fruit?”

Hadrianides maintained his avoidance of eye contact, but darted his eyes over to gauge the intensity of his mother’s expression. His lip began to quiver and his eyes welled up.

“Hadrianides, don’t you ever eat that fruit again or I’ll tell your father!”

Hadrianides wished to demand an answer as to why he could not eat the fruit, but his quivering lip prevented him from vocalizing his thoughts.

As hundreds of sunlit days set and gave way to hundreds of moonlit nights, Hadrianides grew into a tall boy, nearly a young man. That evening so long ago sat inactively in his mind, collecting dust on the shelf of his memories. In the meanwhile, Hadrianides became known among his peers for his wisdom and wit. Hadrianides thought of himself as different from others, separated by his complete self-control and steadfast future ambition. He enjoyed the company of other young men to some degree, but looked down on their utter lack of direction and thus found them difficult to relate to. However, his village was small, and he was made to embrace the flaws of his fellows. Today, they were to convene.

As Hadrianides strolled towards the town square to convene with his friends, the cries of a pleading man rang through the streets. Hadrianides was alarmed, but made way to the city square to assess the situation. Two patrolmen held a man of about his age and shorter stature. His hair was curly and of a cinnamon-mustard color, and his head lay low like a shameful dog.

“I did nothing wrong! Let me go!” he yelled. “I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again! Forgive me!”

One patrolman restricted his movement by holding him from the back and laying one of his trembling hands on the log in front of him. Hadrianides’ eyebrows creased upon a new observation. The curly-haired boy being grabbed appeared to have two missing fingers that looked like red stubs. The log below his hand was dug into deeply with slashes. Suddenly, the other patrolman was passed a sheathed knife, which he promptly uncovered. With the boy’s hand strapped to the log, the following events became rather apparent to Hadrianides, yet he could not look away. Nor could he be bothered to look for his friends for this was far too interesting of a disaster to avoid. Hadrianides was not alone in such a decision, with a crowd having been formed around the boy.

A short, mustached man in a patrol uniform emerged from the crowd. He unfurled a scroll and coughed to clear his voice, “For the third offense of consuming the forbidden fruit, Cannamellis shall pay the price of one more finger.”

Cannamellis closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The officer to his left sliced off his right index finger as though it were a slab of pork. Blood came flowing out of the stub. The boy winced and blurted out a scream of pain. As soon as the latch on his hand was unleashed, he tightly gripped his throbbing hand. The officer gave him a handkerchief as though it were a measly recompense.

As Hadrianides watched this scene play out before him, two thoughts overwhelmed the forefront of his mind: that he should observe the ongoings in front of him, and that he had nearly forgotten about the greatest ecstacy of his life. How could he have let it leave his mind for all these years? The sensation, the crisp bite, its abundant juices. The meeting he was to have with his friends mattered no longer. They would just assume he was sick if he did not appear, anyway. Instead, Hadrianides was going to find the fruit tree from all those years ago.

“Hadrie!” a friend called out from nearby.

Alas, Hadrianides would be forced to wait, for he could no longer feign sickness. While he and his friends journeyed to lunch, Hadrianides failed to focus on the events before his eyes. Instead, an intense excitement awaited him. He was utterly detached from the present, as though his soul had been yanked away from behind his eyes. And as he labored through the polite social movements, Hadrianides was finally able to leave his friends. At first, his shoes tapped the stones below his feet at a reasonable rhythm. Next, his motions became fast but humble. Then a brisk walk. And finally, Hadrianides ran. He remembered the exact direction of the tree. The sky pinkened above, demanding he be speedy. Yet, no demand would work on him—not right now.

Hadrianides once more entered the vacuous meadow, and in it, stood the tree. It was just as he had remembered, but now in full bloom. Dozens of perfectly ripe fruits dangled teasingly from its dozens of hands. Hadrianides had grown tall enough to reach the fruit. So he plucked one and ate it. And another. Then one more. Time passed him by as though it wished to leave him, and eventually the moon showed its face. Before Hadrianides could muster the confidence to leave, he spotted movement in the dark distance. His eyes jolted, his posture hunched, and his heart began to race. That was until he recognized the curly hair of the distant silhouette. To his surprise, the guest who emerged was the boy from earlier—Cannamellis.

“What are you doing here?” Cannamellis demanded in a tremble.

“Probably the same as you,” Hadrianides retorted calmly.

Cannamellis let some of his guard down and approached the tree. He snipped of fruit, but darted his gaze over to Hadrianides every time he did so.

“They took off your fingers?” Hadrianides asked.

“Yeah. That’s the punishment. Every fruit you eat or take that they know of costs you a finger. It’s to prevent you from grabbing the fruit, I think.”

Cannamellis hunched over his fruit protectively as he ate it, but slowly relaxed his shoulders as the conversation continued.

“So losing three fingers hasn’t stopped you?”

“No. I mean, I’ve only been caught three times. I can still hold the fruit, that’s what matters.”

After a pause, Hadrianides introduced himself and asked, “Why haven’t you taken all the fruit back?”

“Well, if you pluck it from the tree, you risk getting noticed with it when you enter the city. That, and, the fruit will rot in an instant if you pluck it without eating it! It’s no good!”

“I suggest we leave a good amount for the following days. But before I leave, I’ll pluck one more.”

Upon agreement, Hadrianides left Cannamellis by the tree.

The next morning, on his way to class, Hadrianides noticed Cannamellis on the streetside. His posture was shrunken over and his eyes darted in either direction. A flax sack was thrown over his right shoulder, and the contents bulging from its bottom resembled the fruit. Cannamellis made eye contact with Hadrianides and quickly upped his pace.

“Cannamellis! You liar! We made an agreement! Get back here!” Hadrianides yelled.

The call was enough to send Cannamellis into a scrambled dash, jittering and sniffing. But, as fate would have it, Cannamellis’ shoe was caught on a stone, and his body flung several feet. The sack toppled in front of him, the fruit pouring out. As Hadrianides lifted his gaze up from the fallen Cannamellis during his approach, he noticed two patrolmen standing just next to Cannamellis. In an aggravation, one officer lifted up Cannamellis, while the other counted the fruit and placed it back into the bag. Although furious, Hadrianides pretended to know nothing of the situation to save his fingers, and went on his way to school.

Hadrianides was worried that because Cannamellis had so many fruits in his bag, there would hardly be any left on the tree. After school, he dashed outside the city’s confines and ran to the meadow. In front of him were two things: a relieving abundance of fruit still dangling from the tree, and Cannamellis, without a single finger on either one of his hands.

“Cannamellis, you dirty liar! Your hands!”

“Seven fruit, so they took off seven fingers. They say that after ten fingers, they’ll take your throat.”

“Then you should leave, lest you be killed. How are you going to pluck fruit without fingers anyway?”

Cannamellis ignored Hadrianides’ comment. Instead, he exerted all the force in his stubby, fingerless palms to unlatch a piece of fruit from the tree. Once it came undone, he fell backwards into the grass and the fruit struck the dirt. Dirtiness was not a meaningful barrier to Cannamellis. While the two were distracted, a voice called from behind, “Get your hands away from the tree!”

A patrolman had arrived. Hadrianides dropped his half-eaten fruit, and Cannamellis stood with juice dripping from his chin. As they were escorted back to the village, Hadrianides thought not about the prospect of losing his finger, but instead about the prospect of never seeing the tree again and living a life of boredom instead. He found it infuriating. Why shouldn’t I be able to eat from the tree? How can something be wrong if it feels so good? Only as the knife was lifted above his right ring finger did Hadrianides begin to consider the prospect of losing it.

“No, wait! Before you do it, tell me why!” he panicked.

“Because it’s the law,” an officer replied.

“Wait,” interjected the moustached man who read the punishment. “I believe he deserves to know the proper reason before he is punished. Son, the fruit is the enemy of good. It tricks you into thinking it is not the enemy with its benevolent taste, but its benevolent taste is actually quite the opposite. It’s so “good” that it destroys every other good we were designed for. You should do things for their intended purpose. Don’t use a spoon to write or a pen to eat. And similarly, you shouldn’t experience a high that destroys the highs and lows that guide our lives and make us do good things.”

Hadrianides interrupted the man at the end of his sentence, “I don’t buy that. If the fruit tastes so good, it must simply be better than those other highs. So why not embrace it?”

“You will become its slave!”

“And why is that so bad?”

“Life loses its luster when you indulge in highs. Eventually, the high will become the norm, and you will have no backbone to rely on. The fruit will dry up, the tree will die, and when you face the life before you, you will realize the error in your ways. You will have no one and nothing, only years attached to this high of yours.”

“So, what? I don’t see the point. And why chop off my finger as a price? I don’t see any sense in it. Just let me live in my error, as you explained.”

“Let’s say we let you and your friend here eat the fruit. Do you know what that would do? It would inspire others to do the same, because the high is so irresistible. And then some more. And even more after that. And eventually, the village will cease to function. Nobody will do their work; they will only eat the fruit. The streets will go dirty, the bread will go moldy, and the pets will grow hungry. When rainfall comes, there will be no one to seal your shattered roof. When a flood comes, there will be no man to fix the dam. And if we do not drown, we will have no children, because we all would have been too absorbed with our little fruit.”

“I believe we’d all be happier if we ate the fruit,” Hadrianides posited.

“Alright, then. Patrolmen, I have changed my mind. Do not remove his finger. We’ll have him sent to Vetiti Pomum, the village of the fruit.”

The patrolman sheathed his knife, and Hadrianides was carried to the side. Soon after, Cannamellis was brought to the gallows. The patrolman changed his knife for an axe. And, a second having passed, Cannamellis was no more. Hadrianides’ hands were tied behind his back and he was hoisted into a carriage set for Vetiti Pomum.

“In what world do you punish a man who harms himself with death?” objected Hadrianides. “Does that not appear counterintuitive and cruel?”

“It’s harsh, sure. But it makes a point. It sets an example. You’ll be hard-pressed to see any others attempt what you two did again,” the moustached man reasoned from the front of the carriage.

“Cannamellis presumably had a family that cared for him—a father and a mother, siblings. What will they think?

“Then he should not have eaten the fruit.”

“But are the consequences of that truly worse than his execution?”

“Hadrianides. We must set hard lines in this world. We built the mountain and its cliff and others choose to walk off of it.”

Hadrianides seldom left his village and seldom traveled by carriage. Seeing the landscapes pass by in a blur almost made him sick. Unfamiliar with the village of the fruit, suspense and anticipation grabbed his heart. The moustached man sat in the seat in front of his.

“Explain to me once more—why shouldn’t I eat the fruit?” Hadrianides questioned.

“As I told you prior, we should do things for their intended purpose. Food and drink are to keep us alive, and sex is to reproduce. The fruit is more than mere sustenance.”

“By that notion, wouldn’t cuisine be obsolete? This most important facet of our culture that we cherish—it’s completely for taste and not only sustenance. The garnishes of leaves, dollops of cream, dashes of sauces, and sprinkles of spices—are those, too, bad? Or should we instead indulge in the pleasures we’ve been granted?”

“Aha—but a garnish, a dollop, a dash, and a sprinkle never dare to destroy your palette. They are mild and additive. You’d be hard-pressed to find a man addicted to pepper!”

“Yet, don’t those additions still lie outside of the boundaries of mere sustenance?”

After pausing pensively, the man responded, “I suppose it’s not limited to mere sustenance, but there is nonetheless a line to draw. We should stick around the boundaries of mere sustenance, with some ebb and flow, but never interrupt the process entirely. Extra measures for taste are generally non-interruptive. We should not shy away from the fact that eating feels good, but also recognize the majority of the goal as sustenance rather than pure pleasure; otherwise, we would all become obese. This is to say, there is an area of ambiguity, but you have far exceeded its boundaries.”

As Hadrianides and the moustached man finished their discussion, a village clouded in fumes approached their carriage. Hadrianides witnessed the clear air transition into an indecipherable fog.

“Here we are, Hadrianides. I hope you can forgive me for this punishment, but there are lessons in this life you must learn only through difficulty. Your father would have thought the same. Lord have mercy on your soul,” the man goodbyed while pinching his nose.

Hadrianides gazed upon Vetiti Pomum. The houses around him appeared abandoned. No men walked through the streets, nor did any lights elucidate their paths. Waste and garbage were littered across the sidewalks, with shattered stones strewn about the road. Hadrianides hesitantly made his way to the end of the street, his eyes rotating like the beacon of a lighthouse.

Abruptly, amidst the choking fog, Hadrianides spotted a green and lively circle surrounding the largest fruit tree Hadrianides had ever seen. The tree stood bravely like an oasis in a crowd of desert dunes. Surrounding the tree were townsmen, gathering by the many, plucking fruit and relishing in its taste. The first thought that crossed Hadrianides’ mind was that he could now consume the fruit freely, without the intervention of his oppressive town. He cared not for any potential danger of the townsmen, only the long-awaited prize that lay before him. He knew the settlement was monickered, “the village of the fruit,” but never considered on his journey the implication of such a title. Alas, Hadrianides rejoiced.

More fruits hung low than he had ever seen in his life. Running over beside the locals, he snatched as many fruit as his arms could hold and soon began to savor their flavor with each crunch. Reaching for another, the arm of a local brushed up against Hadrianides.

“Hey!” the local yelled confrontationally.

Unthinkingly, Hadrianides extended his arm further and plucked the fruit. The local lunged towards Hadrianides in a wild tackle. It was only now that Hadrianides noticed the stare of the people circling the tree—their clothes were tattered and stained, their hair was matted and glimmering with its oils, and their cheeks were that of a skeleton wearing only skin. Violet bags underlined deep cavities around their eyes. The surface of their flesh sprouted with an abundance of blemishes. As the man sat over Hadrianides, he was struck by the man’s feeble and I’ll appearance. Some of what struck Hadrianides was disgust, but moreso a sense of overwhelming superiority. Hadrianides shoved the local off of him and gathered balance in his legs as he stood. The local charged Hadrianides with a high-pitched, whimpering scream, his few teeth made visible through his gaping mouth. In defensive instinct, Hadrianides struck the local in the cheek with a fist, promptly causing the local to lose his balance and collapse in a yelp. The other townsmen gathered around the tree turned towards the commotion, staring at the newcomer, Hadrianides.

Foresensing an impending tussle, Hadrianides made a dash for the other end of the village. After a series of minutes, he stopped behind a tavern, heaving to the bottom of his lungs. There, he sat, pondering his predicament. The moustached man was correct in assessing the state of the village. But why? Why must such a reward come with such a cost? It has been implied that this village was corrupted by the fruit, but was it always like this? Yes, that must be it. Such casual joys could not have exhibited such detrimental consequences to an entire village. It’s this village’s culture, nay, their nature, that brought them to such a point of degeneracy.

Hadrianides got back to his feet and wandered throughout the alleyways. Amidst his scanning, a glimpse of color caught his eye. Intrigued, he approached the building from which the color came. It was a shack, its walls partially caved in. Stepping inside, Hadrianides was shocked to observe a series of marvelous paintings, glorified by their harsh hues. The building’s interior, although dotted with these lively paintings, was plagued by the most atrocious scent. Hadrianides approached a painting that appeared to portray a vibrant and lively townscape. Brushing off the film of dust that spread over the painting with the back of his hand, the artwork became clearer. In the center of the town sat a humble sapling, surrounded by open markets and conversations struck between well-dressed residents. As Hadrianides stared closer at this idyllic display, he wondered where it might take place, if its contents were meant to represent something real. The tall building in the top left corner looked familiar—had Hadrianides seen it before? An unsettling suspicion shook his mind. Is this Vetiti Pomum? Impossible. It can’t be… It must be.

As soon as Hadrianides entered the adjacent room, his sense of smell was attacked by an onslaught of odor. Hadrianides jolted backward. Before his eyes dangled the corpse of an older man. Although the corpse was still held by its noose, the man had clearly died a long, long time ago. A gray beard feathered out of his rotting skin. On the desk behind him, brushes and paints were scattered about, sitting in front of incomplete canvases. Is this the artist? Hadrianides wondered, yet he assumed it most certainly was. Although deterred by the room’s deathly musk, Hadrianides spotted a note on the desk and swiftly moved over to grab it. The note read, “Once this town bloomed brightly, like the most beautiful flower of its patch. The flower was fed the perfect amounts of water and sun, so nothing ever marred its growth. One day, the flower that knew only perfect sunshine and rain was overcome with greed. She wanted more. More of everything. More water, more light, and more nutrients. So, she asked the Sky for just that. The Sky, seeing the flower’s perfect shape, asked if she was sure. She responded in an impatient tantrum, demanding that the Sky follow her request immediately. And so, the Sky obliged. Thunder roared louder than the crash of the beach’s tallest wave. The clouds puffed their chests and expanded beyond the farthest reaches until the entire world seemingly went gray. Lightning bludgeoned the ground faster than the speediest swordsman. Finally, the clouds exhaled, and down came a downpour so large it was unlike anything Earth had seen before. The flower was pushed to the earth, its leaves torn and its petals frayed. Before she and her patch drowned, the storm was released from the sky in an instant. The clouds parted and swam away from each other as fast as their strength could muster. The thunder and lightning ceased, and now, all that remained was the azure lair of the sun. Relieved, the tattered flower attempted to catch her breath. As the hours continued to mount, the flower began to realize that this was the hottest sun she had ever witnessed. She was still prone from the prior storm, her leaves ripped and her petals torn. Slowly, the rest of her leaves began to wilt and bake. Her patch was flat and still, their colors draining. All the vibrant colors and their green stems melted into brown. The flower’s stem was severed, and shortly after, she dried to her death. It’s easy to say I would not have done the same. But I’m no flower. I’m just a weed in the patch who lost his purpose the moment we betrayed our humility.”

Exiting the dilapidated shop, Hadrianides sat on the sidewalk across the street. If the fruit caused such disaster in this village, have I been proven wrong? Am I really to never consume the fruit again? Better yet, is there a way to make people more moderated in their consumption of the fruit? No, it’s too pleasurable for that; It’s too easy to become addicted. So, what does this mean? Does the greed of the flower rob the rest of the patch of its purpose?

His eyes weary and legs tired, Hadrianides trotted from the village of the fruit in the direction of his hometown. Clouds above grumbled and punished Hadrianides with their streams. The water in his clothes gave him weight to carry. After the storm left, the sun baked away the water from his clothes and soon his lips. Too far to return, Hadrianides continued despite his parched lips’ cry for liquid and his stomach’s desire for satiation. His sorry trot soon turned into an exhausted waddle. Hadrianides collapsed in a patch of dirt. Do I die here? No, I’m too far. I must go to the city and beg for forgiveness. He lifted his trembling legs and continued the trek. Hours later, Hadrianides placed his first steps into his hometown. In the fatigue of travel, he no longer cared for what consequences awaited him; he only wanted to be back. After a couple of streets, a familiar face graced the eyes of Hadrianides: his mother.

“Mom!” he called out hoarsely before an extended cough. She did not notice until the coughing, to which Hadrianides repeated himself.

His mother looked in good health, carrying with her a basket of fruits, likely from the market nearby. The moment she turned her gaze, her expression remained still. She even appeared somewhat worried. Beholding a tattered man, his mother no longer recognized her son. His hair was long and messy, his clothes ragged, his body covered in dirt and scratches, and his face dotted with stubble. She paused, staring at him like a timid dog watching for the next movements of a feral lion. Hadrianides’ heart dropped.

“It’s me!” he muttered before being struck by another coughing fit.

Hadrianides’ mother dashed away, leaving her basket of fruits to stumble down the cobblestones. Hadrianides, wanting to run after her and reveal his identity, immediately tripped on a stone below him and fell on his chin. The slow pain that grabbed his heart felt fundamentally worse than even the fruit felt good. In a haze, Hadrianides lay still on the cobblestones.

Footsteps rang out, waking Hadrianides from drooling on the ground. Hoping it was his mother, his eyes slowly shifted upward. Instead, the moustached man looked down, pitifully.

“I want to change,” Hadrianides told him.

Hadrianides was a free man. His routine had returned to normal. He went back with his mother, and eventually they laughed over her mistake. His hunger was fed and his thirst was satiated. He returned to his studies, where there was much to do. Some would even say he thrived. One afternoon, temptation snuck its way up to Hadrianides. In his room, he somehow smelled the fruit. After scanning each shelf and lifting each drawer, Hadrianides found a basket in his room of perfectly ripe fruit, utterly unspoiled. Did I place this here before? I must have. The memory of the fruits’ immense rush of excitement flashed in Hadrianides’ head, dwarfing any other thought. Well, it’s already here. Nothing will change if I eat it now. Finishing the basket, Hadrianides went to fetch more. He did this day after day, until he was caught on his way back once more.

Soon, Hadrianides was bound and escorted to a dungeon. Outside clamored the celebration of a festival dedicated to purity, its cheers mocking Hadrianides.

“Do you understand, Hadrianides?” the moustached man asked outside the cell, sitting in a chair that was only partially illuminated through the bars of the windows above.

Before Hadrianides could respond, the man continued, “I certainly understand your case. It’s hard to fall to temptation at first. But after that, it’s easier than a brush of the hair to succumb a thousand times.”

“I want to change,” Hadrianides responded with a subtle echo, his head facing the floor.

“You say that you want to change, yet each time you glimpse the fruit, you go back to it. Even imagining the fruit is enough for your will to relapse. You are overcome by its gravity. You knew; you knew the rules and their reasons, yet you remained unrelenting. Would it not have been so much easier just to have never bitten the fruit at all? To have erased it from your mind—to focus on the life it has ripped you from?”

“That’s impossible. Once it’s entered it can never leave.”

“Aha—but the only direction is forward. It’s best to try to forget the fruit despite the fact that you will remember at certain points. That’s the only measure you have at a good life.”

“Whatever. I’m doing well. I’m not like someone from the village of the fruit. I excel in class and among my colleagues. I plan where others do not, and I know how I wish my life to be.”

“You feel yourself superior in your sense of control and logic; you think your reason unrivaled, as though of a superhuman quality. And through your reason and self-control, you believe yourself to be truly free, free beyond any other person, emancipated from your animal self into the most pure and natural of human forms. However, you are delusional, Hadrianides. What’s special is not your rationale, but your ability to be enslaved without even a chain or a sword. Most slaves desire freedom in their hearts, but you do not. You outwardly express a willingness to change, but deep down, you cling to your chain. Hadrianides, you slave, you are no better than the average man. In fact, you might even be weaker and more unhappy.”

“Sure, I might feel better. But I no longer enjoy the way the fruit interrupts my ambition, so how can it counteract my intelligence? Can they not exist mutually? Do great men not have their vices?”

“It is you who have allowed your temptations to revoke your superiority. You forfeit more of your potential impact every time you succumb to your temptation. Great men are not great on account of their vice, but instead by their virtue. Without their vice, they would have been even greater, and with more of their vice, they would have faded into obscurity. Do not allow the ills of great men to excuse your failures.”

“And what if I no longer wish to spend my time becoming a great man?”

“Time is the most sacred of currencies that you must not squander. Spend each second you’ve been so graciously gifted on something meaningful, such as contributing to a better world. You will find only decline and ruin in the fruit. Temptation demands that you trade the next second for this one. I demand that you trade this second for the next one, for that is what shall deliver meaning.”

After a pause, Hadrianides contemplated what his punishment might be after this arrest.

“Are they… going to kill me?” Hadrianides mousily stuttered with a lump in his throat.

“I can’t tell you your fate with any certainty. That is for your soul to toil with, not mine. What I do know is that we have a record of you consuming the fruit 15 times upon your return after you assured me you would change. You saw a man get killed for 11.”

Hadrianides stared at the cold floor of his cell.

The man went on, “They say that when one dies, their entire life plays before their eyes in only a moment. When you die, what do you wish to see? An empty life succumbing to the same temptation in a pathetic cycle, inseparable from the same routine you dread? Or a truly free life where struggles can be overcome and every second is spent according to its true value?”

“I want to live.”

“You should have told that to your past self. Yet, you continued, even past the point you saw a man executed for.”

“But, I love life. I really do. The smell of a wet forest, the crunch of grass below my feet, the squeals of children, the love of a dog, the sight of a beautiful woman.”

“Yet, you love the fruit more, don’t you? In your deepest of minds, you will never truly love anything more.”

Hadrianides veered his eyes away to the left and supported his forehead with his hand, contemplatively.

The man continued, “And I know part of you is sick of the fruit, too. Its visage and color have become dull and boring, almost to a grating degree. You feel you need it because there’s no better alternative, but you crave a hidden higher high. But eventually, nothing will truly please you. Chasing pleasure is like chasing the most agile, uncatchable, and unrelenting rabbit. If you do not approach the rabbit, he will do little more than meander. But if you do, he will run endlessly until you are reduced only to your movement. His stamina will never deplete, and your chase will make him never want to see you again.”

After Hadrianides met him with silence, the man followed up, “I have somewhere to be, but I wish you well, Hadrianides, for your own sake and for the sake of your father. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Hadrianides sat alone, silently awaiting his fate, filled with concern, conflicting thoughts, guilt and regret, withdrawals, and pensation. For as much as Hadrianides may understand that it is wrong to eat the fruit when explained to him and rationalized in his own mind, in the moment, his genuine adherence to his principles is tested and constantly fails. In his heart, Hadrianides is unable to believe the fruit is bad even though he has observed all the consequences it has bore. Hadrianides caught his mind trying to convince himself that this doesn’t matter because nothing does, but was soon stopped, as he found himself too intelligent for such argument to really convince him of his own vindication.

I sit here in my cell, awaiting punishment. For what is redemption that continues to fail other than ill habit—indifferentiable from sin? Can someone truly be redeemed from this point if they have proven their redemptions null? And, what if my soul has failed to reject the fruit, and failed to comprehend its dangers, while incongruent with my mind’s rejection? Am I, at this point, unfixable? Unable to be redeemed in any capacity? I wait, and I wait. And though my deepest of hearts calls for a lawlessness that would allow me to escape punishment as though it were the problem itself, I cannot convince myself honestly that I am not to blame. That day—if only I had never fallen astray…

Awaiting an uncertain fate, Hadrianides felt the fruit in his pocket.