Short Stories

My room

I am a survivor.

Number 1625.

I am lucky.

That is what I have been told.

I have never felt the fresh air on my pale skin. The four blank cement walls are all I have ever known.  An old mattress, stiff as a board, laid in the corner with just a sheet covering the stains. I was given a calendar dated back in 3047, which I have been told, was two years ago, the start of the great war. The soldiers outside my door told me that I once had a family, that I was outside before. My memories of the outside are blank like a sheet of printer paper. I could only use my imagination to the best of my ability.

We have a routine here. Two meals a day on a silver tray with dull colored food that has no taste. One shower a week and for that short period of time to take the cold shower, is my only time I get to leave my room. Then at night are the punishments. The doctors and soldiers fill the room and all you here is the screams from others, maybe even from yourself. The screams are my only hope of knowing that I am not the only one.

This is a routine.

Our life.

Repeating each day as if we are only in a dream.

We could only hope.

My calendar is my treasure. Something no one can know that I have. A soldier that goes by the name of lieutenant Sampson gave me my treasure. He is different from the rest. I find it odd how he has pitch black hair with slight red hair coming from his roots. The red reminds me of my own.

The buzz came from the door which woke me from my trance. The one day a year that a soldier brings me a stale cupcake with a candle and flame. Lieutenant Sampson held the cupcake on a tray, with the numbers one and two, towards me with a gentle smile. With a low voice, I lightly blow the light out making my wish. Without process, a hand wraps around my forearm pulling me to my feet. Not questioning the man, I quietly walk out of my room with him dragging me behind. I watch as hundreds of rooms go by, everything bare with just names and numbers on each. The numbers on the door get lower as we get closer to the entrance. Although, one door catches my eye. Damien Skye. Number 1584. His name is in my calendar, on July 26 and it says happy birthday. I do not know him. But one thing is familiar, I just do not know what. Ignoring it for now, I pulled through multiple halls and stairs, a door with soldiers on both sides standing in front of me. With a quick nod from both men, the door is pulled open with more force than needed. The lieutenant pulls me through the doors, past more almond eyed men lining the building.

My bare feet hit the loose soil that once was full of grass. Now replaced with ash and waste littering over it.

Looking forward, my eyes wander. The unfamiliar area filled with houses and metal scattered about. Houses without roofs or walls, some crumbling to its feet. Random pieces of metal are everywhere. Old newspapers, torn and scorched were dancing about the air. The sky is orange with gray that is not from clouds. Trees nowhere in sight. Bursts of fire could be seen a mile away.

I drop to my knees. My cheeks wet, but I do not make a move to wipe my face. I reach out a hand, picking up a shattered picture frame. Five people stood smiling with their almond eyes and formal wear. Their eyes reminded me of the soldiers. Writing on the sides that I do not understand. The language unfamiliar to me. I just stare. They look so happy, an emotion I have not felt in a long time.

"My wish has been fulfilled and it is not what I wanted, I want to go back to my dream," I whispered to nothing but myself.

Dropping the frame to the ground, I stand on my feet walking back to the lieutenant. He grabs my arm gently, pulling me back to my room. Heading back to the last thing that will ever keep me happy. My treasure. In the dark halls, I know that I am never leaving my room again, just like the others. After one more flight of stairs, we reach my door. Only a name and number stood before us. 

Leslie Skye.

Number 1625.

I am a prisoner.