Caged

13 - Like

I’ve dealt with a lot of bad things before.

That much I know must be true. It all comes back hazy, fuzzy, and I want more than anything to ask my Listener, but I can’t seem to remember her name all of a sudden.

I lean against the sink, fingernails digging into the granite countertops, eyes more vividly icy than I remember staring back at themselves in the mirror’s reflection. Luckily for me, my room was labeled with my full name. That is one thing I do remember.

But I did remember where my room was when we were sent back to them after the drive back. I’m just afraid I’ll forget in the future, like I’ve been forgetting things ever since the world stopped spinning.

It is late, that’s all I know. I don’t want to check the clock because I think it will only make me anxious. I try my best to recall times where it has, but it strains my brain too much to try to dig back that far.

It appears I can only remember recent history. Recent meaning the last couple of days. Otherwise, everything blurs together. I only vaguely remember the beginning of Training. All I can think is the same thing over and over and over.

What did they do to me?

What did they do to me?

I start to get sad trying to remember things and decide I need a walk. Medium Manor is large, and its hallways wind and bend and curve, and sometimes create steps at random in the middle of a long stretch. I can tell this building has been built on a hill, a mountain, tight to it as well, as if it is trying to pretend it too is intended by nature and not by man.

I find my way to flights of stairs and dismally bright lights that hurt my eyes, and my fingers meet door knobs and the bobby-pins in my pocket meet locks.

Soon I’ve unlocked my way to clouds. I’ve reached the roof.

The sky is overcast, even hiding the moon. I can see its glow trying so hard to escape, but it is stifled.

Kettle looks beautiful. It is still bright, still alive, and car horns still honk and the massive digital clock on a building far away tells me it is two forty-seven. I’m surprised I can see it so well. 

“Good morning, Kettle,” I breathe, although the city has yet to even say goodnight. I’m filled with an indescribable sense of comfort. While I was just so worried I would be anxious if I knew how late it was because I thought I would be the only one in the world still awake, there was a whole city still bustling about.

“That’s what I love about this city,” someone says. I jump, and a breath of a laugh follows.

His eyes look like the sunset on fields of open grass––orange and yellow and blue and green, all at once. “Kettle is just like us.”

“Dalton,” I say, but he already knows who he is, so I quickly address his previous statement. “How so?”

“How are we like Kettle?” he says. “We don’t sleep all that often.”

I bite my lip because I’m not so sure about my sleeping habits anymore. “I don’t know,” I say, honestly.

He shrugs, breathing in through his nose. “I don’t either.”

Is everything fuzzy for him too? I want to ask him, but I can’t. I don’t know why though, something is just blocking me.

Dalton holds his hand out, and I notice that in it is a steaming cup of black coffee.

“Is this––”

“For you,” Dalton offers with the start of a smile. “I kind of feel like if we’re still awake after a certain point, sleep is redundant. Caffeine also doesn’t seem to work on you.”