Trench

Five

Unsurprisingly, once he reached the room, he was uncertain how to begin or even what to say. He wanted to continue his previous journal entry, but at the same time, he had storms of unrelated words fighting to break loose onto the page.

He was afraid to even touch the typewriter, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps he was afraid someone would hear or see, or that maybe a Watcher was spying through the window. He stood up abruptly and drew the ragged curtains closed, dimming the soft blue light in the room. He didn't like the darkness. It held a sort of pressure to his throat like a knife, stifling his words and choking his breathing. But there was no choice. He had to continue writing, and he needed to take precautions to be able to do so.

Writing was a sort of release. It had only happened once, when he'd written his first entry, and though he had felt panicked and tight smuggling it home, it had felt wonderful to finally express what he had been thinking in physical, written words. He wanted to do it again, but he didn't know where to begin.

Dema wasn't his home. That was the only thing he really knew for sure. A place that surpressed individuality was not where he belonged, no matter what they said. Perhaps he should write that.

He slumped over and rested his head on the desk, drawing mindless swirls on the back of a page as he attempted to decide what words he wanted. Slot. That was a good word. Everyone and everything was so perfectly form-fitted in city. Precise. Days passed very march-like, aimless and rigid. He would be lying if he said he didn't find comfort in the consistency of Dema, but he wanted more. He existed here, nothing more. He longed to know what was out there, beyond the walls. He longed to know what it felt like to truly live. There was only one problem. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. He was still loyal to Dema, he thought, but he was disruptive. But was it really so wrong to crave knowledge? He didn't want to be told over and over again that the world outside was dangerous. He wanted to see it for himself. He wanted his own testimony, his own witness of what lied beyond these walls.

And yet he believed the walls were keeping them in, not protecting them. And though he couldn't prove his idea, he was almost positive he was right. There was something unnerving about the incredible focus and dedication the inhabitants had to their Bishops, even though they were almost completely brainwashed.

He felt as though he was asleep, living in some bizarre dream. He couldn't see the truth yet. Everything was hazy, unfocused, blurry. He pinched his arm almost absentmindedly, as if that alone could somehow clear the fog that veiled his mind, and then winced in pain as nothing happened.

He hoped he'd find a way to see the truth eventually. He wanted to find a way to wake up. He was becoming aware, becoming realized, and had been slowly doing so for years now. It was time to finally understand what the Bishops had been hiding from him. Why was he here? What was the whole purpose for this city? What was he supposed to become? Who was he supposed to become? And how was he supposed to do it when he was forbidden to even think out of line?

His curiosity broke his already strained focus, and he realized he'd let his mind stray slightly from the rather daunting task of deciding what to write. He found himself mindlessly writing his name over and over on the page. It was a word he'd been taught to hate, but now he felt some odd sense of comfort in it. His name was the only unchanging thing he had with him. His name and his previous journal page. So he wrote his name again and again, Clancy Clancy Clancy Clancy, and the more he wrote it, the more he loved the way the letters looked against the page, the way the l looped and the y curled, the contrast of black ink on white paper. He whispered it softly to himself and cringed at first, but then slowly became accustomed to the soft cl sound and the slight whistle of the cy.

What an odd feeling, he silently remarked, to have to grow accustomed to your own name.

But what to write? He only had about an hour before lights out, before he would really be in trouble, so he had to hurry. It would have to be brief, but meaningful. It had to convey his thoughts.

Then he came up with a question he hadn't thought of before. Who was he writing to? It felt as though he wasn't writing to himself, though he wrote for himself. He explained things he already knew. Perhaps he was writing to the younger inhabitants of Dema, the ones who listened to the stories just as intently as he did. And maybe one day, he almost let himself believe - one day, someone just like him would find his entries and read them, and gain the courage they needed to go on. They would find comfort knowing that amidst this dreary world of grey and neon, they were not alone.

And with that in mind, he began writing.