Kassy Tayler: Remnants of Tomorrow

I hike myself up an inch at a time. The hardest part is releasing my hold on the bars long enough to move my hands up and start all over again. Every muscle in my body screams for relief, but I dare not stop. I just grit my teeth and refuse to give up. I refuse to stop until, finally, my fingers grasp at the top ledge of the window and I wrap my legs around the bars.

My foot bangs against the windowpane with a sound similar to a gunshot, and I hold myself motionless for what seems like an eternity waiting for someone to discover me. There are no shouts and no lights appear. The only thing I hear is the cooing of pigeons. They must be resting on the rooftop. If only I had wings to join them.

It takes some thought to figure out my next move, and then I realize it is quite simple. I just have to reach up and grab onto the next window sill. The problem is there are no bars on this window. Why would there be? This is my father’s floor.

Getting to the roof will be harder than I thought, but I’ve come too far to turn back. Turning back means admitting defeat and that is something I will not do. Especially to my father.

I push up as far as I can with my legs braced against the glass and grab onto the sill with the fingertips of my right hand. I hang there for a moment, paralyzed, because I am afraid my grip is not good enough to let go with my left hand. I take another stab at it and get a firmer hold before I let go with my left hand and reach up. Now it is just a matter of once more walking my legs up. The muscles in my shoulders groan in agony as I pull myself up until I am able to swing a leg onto the sill. I spread my arms and grab on to the sides as I slowly stand on trembling legs.

I am sweating. I lean my forehead against the cool glass for a moment as I try to gather myself once more. The thought that my father could be asleep on the other side of the glass does not escape me. I will survive without seeing him. I have survived my entire life without his notice, so I see no need to have it now. If he wanted to see me, he’s had two weeks to do so.

I must get to the roof. I have no bars this time to help me. It is going to take all my strength to get there, and I know I have little of it left. I decide just to go for it, instead of thinking about it, because thinking about it might turn me around.

I grab on to the top of the window and walk myself up once more. My boots bang against the glass. I have no time to worry about the noise. I just keep going until I manage to get my knee up, and then I just let go with my right hand once more and grab onto the roof.

Simple. Until I try to put my left hand beside it and miss. I am so surprised when I don’t grab on that my legs flail and I swing sideways, barely hanging on with one hand. My shoulder screams at the abuse as I try to bring my left arm up again. It is out of my reach. I feel my fingers slipping and I clamp down. Somehow my body twists and the strain on my arm makes me yelp out in pain. I see the buildings around me, dark and still, and the streets below me darker, beckoning … I am going to die. They will find my broken body on the cobblestones, and I will simply be gone. My friends will never know what happened to me.

“Pace,” I say. Is it a prayer, or am I begging for forgiveness?

A hand clamps around my wrist, and I am boldly yanked upward by my arm, over the ledge and dropped onto the roof.

“Wren!” Findley exclaims. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

I need a moment to gather myself. To catch my breath. To realize that I am not dead. I look up at Findley, my father’s man. His face is pleasant, handsome in a way that is hard to define, and his age hard to say. He could be ten years older than me or he could be twenty. His hair is dark blond and his eyes a shade of bluish gray. He’s the same height as Pace but broader and harder. He wears the uniform of the enforcers, what we shiners have always called the bluecoats. I have yet to figure him out.

“Were you watching the entire time?” I finally ask when I am able to breathe again.

He pulls me to my feet. “Yes. Yes I was.”

“What would you have done if I’d fallen?”

“Luckily, we will never know,” he replies as he pushes me to an enclosure with an open door. I realize now that the stairs do go all the way to the top. If not for Findley I simply could have walked down the stairs and to my freedom.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Back to your room,” he says.

I want to cry. But I don’t. I would never give Findley or my father that satisfaction. The trip back to my room is relatively short. Just down two flights of stairs and through the door, where Findley shoves me in the general direction of my bed. I land on it with a bounce and twist around when I hear the rattle of a chain.

“Where did that come from?” I ask.

“I picked it up while you were out,” he replies. To my horror I see that it is looped through the bed frame and attached with a lock. The end of it holds a shackle and he grabs my ankle. I kick out at him but he is much bigger and very much stronger. He grabs my ankle again and twists it so hard I have to flip over to keep it from breaking. When I land on my stomach Findley presses his knee into my back and quickly closes the shackle over my ankle and locks it into place.

“This will hold you until we can do something about that window.” All I can do is glare at him. “See you in the morning,” he adds and walks out, closing the door behind him. I hear the turn of the key in the lock, and I am alone once more. I jump up from the bed and check where the chain is attached. There is no way I can release the chain or lift the bed to release it. It is so short that I can only move two feet away, so I have no choice but to lie down, defeated.

But only for the moment.

Memories have a way of coming to you when you least expect it. The littlest things, long forgotten, suddenly sneak up on you and capture you. As I lay on the bed, seething in anger, the memory of the first time my grandfather took me above comes over me and leaves me with an ache of regret for things left unsaid.

I could not have been more than four years old the first time he took me aboveground. At first it was painful because the light was so much brighter than I was used to, underground where we lived. After my eyes finally adjusted, I stared at the dome soaring high above the rooftops, marveling that the world could be so big. My only reference was the cavern we lived in below. My grandfather lifted me onto his shoulders to sit as he walked, and I felt safe, since I was above those who milled about us as we made our way to the library for the single day of the year we were allowed in. I stretched my hands high above my head, certain that if I tried hard enough, I could touch the glass that covered us and kept us safe from the flames that raged outside.

My grandfather was a practical man and did not encourage my dreams, so I kept them to myself. I dreamed about going outside when I was old enough to go up the lift on my own and climbing up to the rooftops to watch the light come to the dome. I had no idea how to make my dreams come true, nor did I realize the price that we would all have to pay. I was younger then, and in my heart and mind I was certain that once I and everyone else was outside our lives would be perfect. I would have achieved the pinnacle of my desires and could live out the rest of my days content that I had nothing more to worry about and nothing more to strive for.

I realize now how foolish I was.

Once outside it did not take me long to find that I was wrong. Opening a door and stepping through does not solve everything. For me and for those who believed in me, it led to another set of problems, and to another set of principles, with the sure knowledge that mistakes are made by everyone. The best that you can hope for is that you learn from your mistakes and are able to move on to make things better for yourself and the ones that you love.