Blinded By Gold · Spring 2016·

Prologue

If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?

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The moon gleamed down the sleeping houses within the walls. There they would be, in silent sleep, eyes shut away from the solemn present. For most, it was a small comfort. It was a more soothing sight compared to the blinding rays of the sun. Yet some wouldn't sleep, staring at the pale light. It reminded them of the small shred of hope they had within the walls of darkness. Feeling happy, feeling relieved, a sudden, lunging wave of despair would wash over them. Then they would remember the horrors in the morning, where they might be greeted with a set of crimson, canine teeth. Bursting into tears, they sob in grief, shaking uncontrollably as they gave up on their sanity.

I can't live like this anymore.

There is no more hope for us, livestock waiting to be slaughtered.

We are penned up in these walls. Sooner or later, we would get taken away by...them.

And these tearful wails would drift away in the night from a body's fatigue, never to be uttered in front of anyone again.

These were the thoughts of the families of winged warriors, and rose bearers.

An old man sat up on his bed, staring out of his window. Facing the massive, concrete slabs as his long life scenery. Wistful thoughts flowed through his mind as he held up trembling fingers. He traced the popping blue-green veins on his near-translucent skin. His eyes were dry, and was afraid they would turn even more blood shot if he rubbed them a little more. He scratched his head, not because it was itchy, but was longing for a couple of white hairs that he may be able to touch.

Tomorrow, it'd be the highlight of his life. His son would get him a cake, the mother-in-law might give a hand-sewn shirt. She was already having a belly, but he wasn't sure whether he would get to see the child.

A loud knock came from his bedroom door. "Grandpa?" A little voice squeaked.

"I'm here." The old man coughed out hoarsely. He placed his hand on his right, looking for the candle he always left on the nightstand. He found his box of matches, sparked a light, and lit the pathetic stature of wax.

It wasn't a room to be proud of. A musty, stale smell always lingered around (young people called it the 'the pissy stench'), and it was about the size of a middle-class bathroom. He still liked it over anything too large, as the conscious thought of feeling like a midget made him shudder.

"Now why on Maria's Wall would you stay up this late?" asked the old man as the bedroom door opened. The candle wan't much, but it managed to illuminate the room softly. A smile crept up to his lips. He recognised that tuft of sun kissed, brown hair anywhere.

The little girl came out from the door's shadow. She smiled. "Grandpa," she said brightly, eyes widening. "You're awake."

"You woke me up," he said. Which was a lie. He had never been asleep. The old man watched as the girl's short figure (no taller than the bed) scooted to his side. "What's wrong, child?" he asked.

"Story. Story." The child chanted, thoughts already shifted to another. Children, as most might say, have very short attention spans. "I want a sto-ree."

The old man rolled his eyes, then faked a yawn. "It's already so late, child..."

She pouted. "Story."

"But I don't have anything else to tell anymore," the old man shrugged. He didn't really feel like pampering his granddaughter now.

The little girl harrumphed. "I want a story! I want a story! I can't go to sleep without a story!" She whined. She punched the bed repeatedly.