The Outside

Chapter One

There was a story that my father used to tell me. I was little the last time I heard it, though looking back at what I've just seen today made every word he ever said to me fit together into one big reality. This fairytale - or what I had perceived it to be - that made me giggle and dream about exploring, flashed before my eyes as soon as I ran out that door today.

Weeks before now I had been suspicious about the actions within the Government. The things I found and heard in both my bosses office and my father's research were all true. My father hadn't been wrong, but neither was the Government. They stood by their word and released the Announcement. It was hard to hear out loud, and hard to be separated from everyone and everything I've ever known. Though I played my part for only a short while, I had to seek help, but never did I expect this to lead to where it is now. For every clue, every mystery that went unsolved, for every puzzle piece to fit together this way. I could never have predicted this. No one could've.

These stories, I now assume, were my father's way of telling me the truth. He knew the curiosity that lied beneath my eager eyes. He knew I'd put two and two together one day. He knew all of this was going to happen. By some unknown way he was able to know everything.

Before all of this happened, I was still eager to figure out exactly what his work entailed. He used to lock himself up in his office from dusk till dawn, and he rarely came out only for the occasional meal, to pack for a trip, or to tell a short little bedtime story to his daughter. About two times a month he'd come in and read to me his stories out of a brown leather journal. I remember it always being dirty or torn in new places each time he had come back from a trip, as if they were small souvenirs of his travels. Along with tears, he always had new information to add on to the tales. Of course this got me wondering where he went. As I was told he was a writer, so why did he need to go visit places in order to write more stories?

One thing led to another and I became more curious than ever. He had more changes to himself after this trip, rather than items he had lost or things that had gotten torn.
By my mistake I asked him the question which had been drilling through my brain at the time.

He walked into the kitchen one evening before dinner and while he was washing his hands I caught a glimpse of the three long marks down the back of his neck. It looked like a wild animal of some sort had attacked him. I know this mark wasn't there before he left on another one of his trips, so he must have got it mended by the serum that nurses used to make a deep scratch look like an old scar. Of course this was before they invented a new kind of serum which is inserted into the wound by a syringe that made the wound completely disappear. My mother was a nurse herself and told me all about these things. Seeing as how little I was, I preferred my father's stories.

Anyway, being as curious as a normal 9 year old is I asked, "Daddy? What happened to your neck?"
He stopped short, raised his head from the work of cleaning beneath his nails, and slowly turned around. I will never forget the look on his face. He wasn't a mean man, but that particular question got him very angry.
"Why do you have to be so annoyingly inquisitive all the time? Why can't you just shut your mouth and keep to yourself? My business has nothing to do with you!" He stormed out of the room without turning the faucet off or taking his dinner at all.

I remember this clearly, as it was the only time he had ever gotten upset like this at me.

Later that same night he had come to my room and apologized. This was no doubt an act of my mother's. I forgave him, though after that night, despite all of my questions and thoughts, I always kept quiet and listened. I never asked another question again, though I learned at an early age how to observe and come to conclusions.

The nights after this, he would get into so much detail and depth about these fictional places until his rhythmic voice made my little eyes heavy and my wandering mind drift off to sleep. I used to wake up the next day and tell my mother about these places and the adventures I had in my dreams. I'd go to school and tell my classmates the same, they all laughed and made fun of me, but I stuck true to my little innocent thoughts. I knew my father had discovered something wonderful. Even if I wasn't sure that his stories and his travels fit together, I intended to find out more.

After I got home I'd wait at his office door with my iColor pads that I had got for Christmas, hoping he'd come out to tell me more. Though that rarely happened, it was a usual routine for me.

Then, by the wretched maker of time, I got older and, like the stories, my father started to fade away. Then all at once they were both gone completely. He had been forced out of his office late at night out of our tiny little apartment by the Taker's, which was just the pet name I gave for the Government Officials. I can remember that night clearly. The Taker's gave him five minutes to pack up his things before he had to leave. In the midst of this he bent down, looked me in the eyes with more hope and desperation mixed together than someone could ever look at another and said, "We aren't alone in this great big world, love. There is always more than the eye can tell. Always believe in more. Believe in the unimaginable." He kissed me on the forehead and was forced out of the house. My mother held me back against her pregnant belly while I was kicking and screaming for them to let my father go. I was 10 and to me, my life was over.

For a little while I grew mad at him for doing whatever he did to get arrested and mad at my mother for ever thinking that night was for the best. She had told me he had gone mad and needed help, she promised he'd be back soon. But he never came back, and as time began to speed up again and my little brother was born, I soon forgot my past. I had a new life, and this was my chance to start over.

As strange as this may sound, the stories he used to tell are what really stuck with me. More than the image of his face ever will. His tales were absolutely absurd and full of the greatest things a fairy tale could hold. This was nothing that could ever of been interpreted as nothing more than a writer's creative mind at work. That is what I was told and what I believed, he was a writer and was driven mad by his stories. How could it be anything else?

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A lot of information to be taking in for the first chapter, I know. But trust me it'll get much better and much more exciting!

Some things had to go undescribed and I'm truly sorry but that's what suspense is for, my friends. ;-)

What do you think the stories her father told were about? Comment and vote if you liked this chapter.

The next update will be coming tomorrow! Add "The Outside" to your library for easy access to the next chapter!