Walking Away From Caiburgh

3

With the blaring of the school bell, the class was dismissed, and we were instructed to line up outside the classroom after putting our school supplies away. As is part of our usual routine in school. I loathed it.

At home, it feels like we are prisoners in our very own living spaces, bound by the loathsome regime imposed on us. At school, it is no different, where a standard procedure is followed. It is an inescapable system, as if our humanity is forever tethered to it.

It's like we have no freedom to choose what we want to do. Everything is pre-determined by the Higher-Ups.

What will it take just to find and obtain that freedom I have been desperately seeking for years?

"YOUR MEAL IS READY. PLACE YOUR FASSO CARD IN THE SCANNER FOR PAYMENT."

A realistic human-sounding robotic voice broke my train of thought and brought me back to reality. With both hands, I grab the tray of food in front of me after placing my card in the scanner. As I start walking towards a vacant table, my mind is once again preoccupied with thoughts of freedom. And identity.

To start, I have never really felt as if I was cut out for this world. I've always felt like I am some sort of alien from a foreign world. My views, perceptions, and even my way of expression clash with those of the average person here. They simply don't get it. Whenever they get a glimpse of any of those from me, they either respond by giving me a weird look or just outright ignoring me. To be honest I'd prefer they do the latter, it makes me feel less judged.

I have expressed my dismay and concern about the state of our freedom countless times in my tablet journal. Mainly since I have no one else to tell it to, and even then, in the unlikely scenario that someone actually does listen to what I have to say, they will certainly dismiss it as some kind of delusion.

In this society, we are attached to a pattern, a procedure all of us must follow. When you've been doing it for your whole life, it starts to drain you. Like it has started to drain me. I am only 17 years old, and the downcast feeling I get from that kind of routine has already affected my health in more ways than one. I have no idea how older people have held up that long. There was an old gentleman I knew a few months back who lived up to the age of 74 before passing away, and as insensitive as it may sound, I have always wondered what was going through his head during his last moments alive. Was it bliss he felt? Since he is finally to be freed from the chains that constrained him while he was alive. I will never know.

What also puzzles me is how the people around me genuinely seem to not care about this tiring day-to-day schedule. The whole time I've been alive, I don't think I've ever seen another human being express contempt, disappointment, weariness, or sadness due to this exhausting routine. All of them simply go through it while asking no questions and raising no scrutiny.

But I question it every day.

In secret, of course. I haven't found the right time to outwardly express it. Maybe in the future. Maybe not.

Finishing up my lunch, I wipe my mouth clean with my handkerchief. I turn my head to look at the time projected on the screen along with news about the weather. It is 12:26 PM, barely halfway through our lunchtime. I would always eat my meal hastily to have some time where I could actually be free. For the rest of the break, I go to spend the remaining time at my sanctuary. A place I call "a haven in hell". It is my oasis in this hopeful hell, and the gateway to my final destination.

——————

The sound of my footsteps as I walk is the only thing that can be heard here. Unlike the outdoor environment upstairs, here it is quiet.

My eyes roam around as I traverse the large room. Surrounded by the color gray, the concrete walls are adorned with minuscule to massive pieces of art, mostly paintings, though there are some colorful light structures I don't know the name of. Screens are placed on the walls as well, likely once flashing the routes of the trains for the day. And glancing at the pillar display in the center, a rusting set of words is put up. "Union of Pliubian Railways", and just below it is another set of words that read "County of Caiburgh Station", with some missing letters that indicate its wear and tear.

My sanctuary, my oasis, my haven in hell, was once a subway station belonging to the UPR railway company. Almost everything in here was left unchanged-save for some damages here and there-after the tragedy that led to the abandonment of this particular station. Everywhere I look, a sign of destruction is evident, from the broken glass shards littering the floor, metallic benches destroyed to bits, and screens shattered to ruin. One could say this is a place where havoc wreaked and where chaos ensued, but to me, the quietness and the isolation make me feel at ease.

The subway station of Caiburgh—the city where I reside—is directly connected to our school's infrastructure, occupying the underground part of the building. Two flights of stairs—really, they're escalators that had broken down over time—and passing through the archway entrance, you arrive at the station. The County of Caiburgh Station, along with some other UPR stations in the country, last operated when I was 5 years old from what my guardians told me, so I had never gotten the chance to ride any of their trains. That also means I have never traveled to other cities in my life, since the subway is the only means to go to other parts of the country. But people in Caiburgh were advised to simply stay in the city because everything we would demand is available here. More so after that tragedy, walls were built that borders the whole city, ensuring that no one could go away.

There was no need to leave. But more importantly, the Higher-Ups didn't want anyone to leave.

Though strangely, they left the only place of exit deserted. No one is tasked to guard this place.

With my wristwatch, I see that it is 12:49 PM. I could take my last look. The space where the trains are supposed to be is completely empty, so I walk over to it. Stepping foot on the empty tracks, I gaze at the tunnel in front of me, where a light source can be seen by the end.

The tunnel. The gateway to my freedom. My escape from this refrain.

I move forward to the huge arch of the tunnel and graze my hand on its smooth surface. From all the years of neglect, some parts of the stone arch had started cracking. I give it a few more decades until it fully collapses. By that point, anyone wishing to leave will have no way to escape. Forever trapped in this city I have grown tired of.

One day, I will start walking through this tunnel to my freedom. The risk is worth what could be waiting for me on the other side. It will happen. I'm sure of it.