Trench

Nine

Clancy was almost to the typewriter's room door when he saw someone there, resting against the wall, as if he was waiting for him. He flinched as he saw him, and stumbled back, nearly losing his balance. He quickly hid back behind a wall, his heart pounding, and barely gathered enough courage to look around again.

Surprisingly, he recognized him. It was the same person he'd caught when he tripped in the square, a few days ago. That's odd, he thought. What is he doing here?

As he thought about it, he remembered seeing something in his eyes, too, something almost like a muted hope. Clancy couldn't tell if it was muted because he was submitting to Vialism, or if it was because he was better at hiding it. Clancy almost wanted to talk to him, but he was too afraid to initiate the conversation. Besides, he was in a different Sector. No one spoke to the inhabitants of other Sectors. It wasn't necessarily forbidden, but it was noticed. No matter what, there was something about him that made Clancy nervous, but also intrigued him. Was he another like him?

He quickly shook his head. No. Of course not. He was alone, and the sooner he accepted that, the better off he would be.

When he looked back to see if he had left, he was frustrated to see that the stranger was still there. Did he know about his secret place? For some reason, that was rather upsetting. The room upstairs was his room, his secret place. He didn't want to share it with anyone else.

He couldn't sneak in with someone watching, but he couldn't go back to the Vialism lecture, either. He decided he'd go back to his apartment and get some rest, and figured that that was the easiest action to get away with if anyone asked.

The streets seemed so much longer as he walked. He had never roamed the city when the streets were empty, and he didn't like it. He could feel someone's eyes on his back as he walked, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw two Watchers staring at him, their heads tilted and their feathers ruffled. Someone was going to catch him, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get away with lying again.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and gripped his pen tightly for comfort, but it did little to calm his frantic heart. He kept his eyes glued to the ground and picked up his pace, but he nearly tripped over his own feet. He suddenly remembered what he'd written on the page during his attack. Get out. He had to get out of here. The thought scared him, and he shook his head wildly. Not Dema, he decided, though he wasn't sure, but here. He had to get off of this street.

Though he had walked these streets for most of his life, for some reason, he felt completely disoriented, as if he didn't know where he was. Logically, he knew he was a few streets away from his apartment, still in Sector Three, but the world spun around him and every building looked the same.

Something in the ground suddenly caught his eye, something unusual. He slowed out of curiosity, his gut telling him that this was important, though he wasn't even sure what it was. He stooped down to pick it up and to his surprise, it was soft and smooth. It was thin and flat, and weighed almost nothing, and was shaped like a sort of wide teardrop. He glanced up to see that the Watchers had come closer, so he quickly shoved the curious object in his pocket and resumed his journey back to his apartment.

As he walked, suddenly calmer than before, he pondered on what he'd seen. It was so familiar, and yet so different. What was it? Was it dangerous? Where had it come from? These questions plagued his mind until he found himself mindlessly walking in circles, and realized that he had returned to the hall with his secret room.

The other man was gone. His heart leapt in excitement, and he quickly rushed to the door and practically flew up the stairs. The curtains were still closed, just as he had left them, and the typewriter still sat quietly on the desk. Eagerly, he sat down and faced the page, his fingers itching to type and type and type. But then he remembered the strange object in his pocket, and quickly dug it out for further study.

After racking his memory for what felt like an eternity, he remembered what it was. It was a flower petal. There were no flowers in Dema, except for the few blood red roses the Bishops kept for ceremonial purposes. But this petal wasn't red. He wasn't sure what color it was. He'd never seen it before. It was almost the color of the white sun, only darker. It was like the color of his pale skin, but...different. The harder he squinted at it, the more confused he became, and eventually, a headache surfaced behind his eyes, and he had to withdraw his attention.

He turned his gaze to the satchel sitting next to the typewriter. Though he had been here twice before, he'd been afraid to open it and disturb whatever was inside, but now, he couldn't focus on the typewriter until he knew what it held. There were two straps buckled closed to keep the top shut and protected, and he slowly unlatched them with trembling fingers.

It was a camera. He'd only seen one once before, when he was roughly twelve or thirteen. It took pictures, but why would someone want to take pictures? The answer came suddenly: to look into the past and remember. The Bishops didn't take pictures. They didn't even film for security. They had the Watchers for that.

He picked the camera up slowly and carefully, half expecting someone to burst through the door and catch him red-handed. He twisted the lens slightly and looked through the eyepiece. Everything looked slightly distorted, as if he was squinting his eyes more than usual and looking through his eyelashes. He pointed the camera at the window to see a line of Watchers sitting on the wall, staring at him. Without thinking, he felt his finger press down on the top corner button, and something snapped, and then a blurry, black and white photo fell from the body of the camera. Surprised, he put the camera down and looked at the shiny piece of paper. Sure enough, it was a picture of the line of vultures on the wall. The corner of his lips tipped up into a smile, and that almost surprised him more than the photograph. He hadn't smiled in a long time.

The whole thing was fascinating. Where had it come from? Who did it belong to? And how had it ended up in this forbidden room? He had to restrain himself before he took more photos, afraid that he'd use up all the paper or ink or film. He wasn't entirely sure what was in it, but he knew he had no way to replace it.

He studied it for a few long minutes, trying to find any sort of hint as to who it belonged to or why it was up here, but he came up empty handed. Eventually, he returned the camera to the satchel and turned back to the typewriter, only to have his eyes drawn back to the flower petal on the desk next to him. Where had this come from? It couldn't have blown in from over the walls. They were too high, and that meant it would have come from somewhere high up as well, but there was nothing that tall beyond the walls. Whenever he managed to catch a glimpse of the landscape outside, he saw nothing but rugged hills and rocks. Once, he thought he'd seen mountains, but then the grey fog had returned. That was all he ever saw.

But this - this was a new color entirely, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It reminded him of the lifeless neon tubes that lit the city of Dema, only warmer and more inviting. It was...happy. That was the only way to describe it. The color was warm and happy, and his smile grew wider.

It felt almost unnatural to smile. After a few minutes, his jaw and cheeks began to ache, as if protesting the unfamiliar expression, but he couldn't stop. Everything here was amazing, and he couldn't help but smile at the wonder.

His smile suddenly faltered as he realized that Dema was devoid of the wonder he used to see. This was the first time he had felt truly excited and curious in years. When he had first arrived, he had wandered through Dema with childish awe. They had promised to protect him and keep him safe from the horrors of the world outside of those walls. And he had believed them.

His fingers twitched over the typewriter in distress, as though they couldn't bear the thought of acknowledging the fact that his entire life was a lie. He let his eyes rest on the flower petal again, and with a shiver of uncertainty, he began to type.