Edward was troubled. In his mind, he saw the great waters of the ocean, stretched out before him, an expanse of salt and death. He saw the swallowed beach, the gray morning mist mixing with the ash as the two fell out of the sky, dancing in dreary patterns before they lay down to die on the earth. It was that day again. He dreamed of it often, always the same, ending the same miserable way every time he slept with it in his mind.

That morning as the ash fell down and the rain came from the sky, Irene had left him alone in the apartment. There was no argument between them and he had not tired to stop her from going. There were times when he wished he had said something to her. Maybe then she would have stayed. But the monsters had called her, and who in all the world could resist their call?

She had said to him as she awoke that day, “I must leave you. I am never coming back.”

He swallowed hard, allowing her words to soak into his soul. “But I need you here with me, Irene.”

“My name is not Irene,” she replied stubbornly. There had been real tear in her eyes that day. Real human tears. Edward had not seen them since his mother had been exterminated, and then they had been his own.

He touched her face lovingly, in a vain hope to dissuade her from her decision. She stiffened under his fingertips, shuddered as he pressed his whole hand to her cheek. He knew she was too far from his reach. The monsters had called her. She was never coming back. So, he kissed her, softly and slowly, passionately, with all the love he had for her. Her lips were smoother under his, yet they quivered with hesitancy. She loved him not as she once had, for now she loved the monsters and their drums more.

He let her go out the door that morning, allowing her to walk right out of his life, down into the tunnels where the hum and the clank and the drone ever ceased. Edward was empty, consumed with an ache so great that he was not sure he could live under its weight. His only reason to live had walked out on him that morning, off into the mix of dust and mist falling from the sky, dancing drearily before it died on the earth. Irene had left him alone. Taking his hat, he made his way down to the beach.

It was in his dreams that he saw this beach now, the sea swelling up like a bee sting. The beach had been swallowed by the raging ocean that year, for the rain had come and poured out its sorrow for the world onto the coast. It was there, on that morning after Irene had walked away, that Edward walked out to sea.

The wind was high, moaning in the gray of the early morning as if the ghosts were abroad. Edward sat in the tide, inviting the ocean to wash him away, carry him far from the city and all the grief that had stricken him there. His mother was gone, Irene was gone, his county, his race all but gone and he wished with every atom of his structure that the roaring sea would swallow him the way it had swallowed the beach that year. It nearly did.

Edward was caught in the undertow, and at the moment, terror streaked through him. But he was drug under and held down by the water, its strong arms grasping his limbs with fists of iron. He flailed his arms and legs forcefully, desperately, attempting to break free of the confining prison that held him under the waves. His lungs burned for air. Edward thought of Irene, scrambling to live in case she changed her mind. If he died, she would have nothing to come back to if she escaped, if the monsters left, if the last humans won and drove them back into the far reaches of the universe from whence they had come. He needed to live for hope of victory to be thrive.

Miraculously, (and indeed it was a miracle), a hand pulled Edward from the water back into the life-giving air. He was lifted out of the sea and dropped into an open over-large metal can. He knew instantly a monster had captured him; one of the cleaning machines had found him flailing about in the water and deposited him into a can of trash like all the garbage found in the sea. He was alive! But now he had the problem of how to escape. A few minutes more and he would suffocate, for the great lid had already been snapped in place, sealing him into a metallic, lightless prison.

Edward lay in a daze, hours later, on his back in the center of a clean white table. He looked up into a shining light, so bright it stung his eyes with tears. Above his head, encircling, floating just inches from his face were the metal hands of the monsters, their claws waving dangerously, threatening to slice his flesh. The scene was lurid. The monsters seemed to notice every flinch he made, every fear burning in his brain. They knew his terror, were thriving off it. Edward heard one of them speaking, its metal voice pinging like a pinball inside his head.

“Don’t be afraid. We will not harm you friend,” it breathed, close to his face, its eyes wet with grease and oil. The face of the monster was smooth, shining like the sun underneath the lights. Its teeth clanged together, and Edward heard the whirring of its heartbeats inside its aluminum skin. The other monsters crowded around, drawing breaths of awe and wonder. He heard the ping of their voices but could not discern any words they spoke.

“You have something we need, Edward,” the monster hovering over his face said. This was the same monster who had spoken to Edward first. It was apparent that was the appointed leader of whatever operation they were carrying out. “Edward, tell us of the black wooden box with white teeth that sits silent in your living room.”

He was confused. The monster had used his human name. He didn’t know what to make of any of this. The question rolled threw him. “That is my great grandmother’s piano. I haven’t played it since I was small. Mother made me play it.”

“We want you to play it,” the greasy eyed animated hunk of metal creaked in its high pinging voice.

“What do you mean?” Edward asked, bewildered.

“The song that the box sings when you rest your hands in its mouth lulls our weary bodies. Please, will you make it sing for us?”

“I’m not sure I remember how…” Edward started to say, but he was rudely interrupted by a shrill whine from the monsters above him.

“You will make the box sing, or else we will send you to the mines, Edward,” the lead monster’s voice clanged in his ears. “You do not have a choice. We must hear the song of the box tonight, every night. Forever.”

The clanging, the pinging in his brain continued until he was scooped up into the hands of the greasy, oily-eyed conqueror. “Go Edward, and you may keep your name.”

And Edward found himself wandering alone beside the swollen ocean, the beach swallowed by the water, the mist and dust were still falling from the sky, and the sun was setting on the horizon. Where had he been? Why did he have this urge to play this great grandmother’s piano after all the years it had sat neglected in his living room? Edward did not know how the day had passed so quickly, but he knew he had to return home before the sun set, to make music.

When Edward awoke from the imagines of his past, the images of his accidental encounter with the machines who had enslaved him, the sun hung low. He rolled out of the bed, his head pounding with the whir of machines, mechanical voices spitting phrases at him in their pinging language. He was troubled. The accident was still fresh in his thoughts. He lit a cigarette, sucked on the end of it as if his life depended on it and wiped the sweat off his brow. He was not sure if he should sit at the piano this night. He realized now that he was just as brainwashed as the rest of humanity.