Your Battle, My War.

I can see you. Can you see me?

"Ash, 9, fifteenth October, Tuesday, solitary." Bored now. Why haven't they caught on? Everyday for as long as I remember I've come here, for as long as I remember they've chased me and for as long as I remember they've always found me, except here.
It's easy enough: the obvious details about myself and just west enough to see the sun rise between the tallest buildings in the city. Why can't they can't they get to me here? What makes this place special? It seems so colourless and dull it's almost depressing; but for me it's a slice of paradise.

Peace. If that's what they want. It's easy enough.

Sometimes, when I'm bored, I see how close to the city glass I can get until I see the flame and I'm forced back. It's dangerous but it's the most fun I'm allowed to have. I wish I had somebody else. Anybody else. I watch the others learn and work and play. It's torture. I can see them read, write, talk, celebrate, grow. All I have is myself and some dolls I made to pass the time but the storm washed them away. It never rains in her world; that's what I call it: her world. It's always green in her world and the clouds always perfectly shaped in her sapphire sky. It's a pity the piercing buildings distort the horizon and tower above the old land. I can't change that. Nobody would listen, even if anybody could hear me in the first place.

My place: right here. With bits of everything I've collected over time: my small collage of photos from the stolen Polaroid hung on string; my matchbox from the fields; the straw hat with the wafer thin carnation tucked into the lilac ribbon; my toy car; my wind up toys and stolen batteries; my fishing net tutu; my notepad and fiddle pen to match; my torch; my suitcase; my pocket watch and my collection of old clothes. My favourite procession is my pair of shoes. Far too big of course but one day, on a special occasion, I'll wear them, when I find another person, that's when I'll wear them, my shoes.
My shoes.
Are they really mine though? I see people exchanging money for items in shops and places, I've never paid for anything. I've never paid for anything at all. I never paid for my shoes. Yet I move around each day without having to pay for anything I don't have money to spend so I don't spend any. I couldn't anyway.

The old Apple crate I sleep on and lost blankets is tucked in the corner. Another box on the left my holds torch so it stands up and light beams softly warm the cabin with a golden glow. The loop of photos dangles woefully above my bed and cast stretched, disfigured shadows across the weathered walls. In the other corner sits another box full of all the broken belongings or bits of missing parts I've found while running. And along the opposite wall is a small upturned bucket and a crate that once held baked goods: this serves as my table and chair. There's a sheet of reflective metal outside and on warm days I like to dress up in the nicest clothes I own and dance in front of it so I can watch myself while I pretend to be part of the world that I will never be apart of. It isn't much but it's all I own in the world. I have one thing to worry about but while I'm here it doesn't trouble me. But I long to share it with someone else.

I imagine being a girl in the city, having a mother braid my hair in the mornings; knowing I'll never go hungry; having new toys and games to play; going to school; reading books; chatting with friends and having someone who cares. Someone who loves me. I can never have that. Not in real life. That's why I like pretending: I can be whatever I want to be then. Sometimes I'm a racing car driver, I've seen them speed along the inside of the glass, number 46, red, that's the car I'd want. Or sometimes I'm an artist, I watch them paint skilfully and slide their brushes and pencil over canvas and paper with the grace and air of a dancer. On other days I'm a police officer and I pretend to be saving imaginary people from imaginary evil. But it never lasts. It's not real. It never can be and never will.

I'm only nine years old and I hold the key to what everyone wants. Yet this is my safest place, I'm hidden in plain sight and here they can't take me.

An earsplitting scream. A screech that shatters the earth. A piercing, desperate cry.
I awaken with start, roll over and hit something under the covers. It's warm. It's lumpy. It's got limbs. It's alive.
It's a person.
A boy about the same size as me. A mop of strawberry blond hair and freckles covering his nose and cheeks. He wears a pale blue shirt that's ripped and muddy, his shorts are a fitting too large and he wears no shoes. His clothes are dirtied and ragged but he is clean. I just sit there, not exactly watching him, but pondering on what to do now.
Then there's the scream again. Like fingernails on the chalkboard, it sores through the air with purpose and longing. The boy isn't woken by the sound and continues to shuffle and mumble to himself in his sleep.
The noise stops as suddenly as it started and silence wraps around my body. I don't know what to do. It's cold. I don't know how he got here. And I don't know who he is or where he came from or what he wants with me.
Then it hits me: I'm no longer alone.
I busy myself with the chore of finding enough to feed us both and while I'm searching for a spare dish he rises, rubs both eyes, runs his fingers through is hair and shifts to the edge of the crate. Gently and carefully he lifts himself into standing and marches over to help me scavenge. Only saying one thing, " You can call me Aviary, it's not my name but that what you may call me. I heard someone say it to me once I like it, I wanted it, so I took it and I kept it. What about you?"
He raised is eyebrows in a quizzical manor before turning away.

In my early morning haze I stagger between boxes until I come across a cracked, chipped dish about the size of a slice of bread. I place it on the upturned box in the corner and split a can of red peas on the corner of the table, red peas, it's the best I could do. I observe him sipping water from a battered mug. I'm impressed with his peacefulness and continue to examine his presence; his peculiar mannerisms and air. I've never been this close to another person before. I worry that my voice may sound different then it does in my head or while I talk to myself.

Is it polite to remain silent and stare or should I engage a conversation? Before I can decide whether or not to open my mouth the scream shatters through my hut once more. I stand and watch as he clambers to the door way and stride into the cool, open air. I picture him stood above my cavern, his shirt a harmonious beauty against the dreary grey sky. His hair twisting in the breeze.

I crash back to reality and collide with worries and nerves of finally meeting another person. But how did he get through the scans and codes? I always thought it was obvious and easily done abut it's never been achieved before. He isn't forceful or enraged, neither vicious or threatening: he's nothing like anyone I've ever come across before. People run towards me, try to chase and capture me. They want something I've got, but they're afraid to come and get it. I'm always just out of reach if I knew what they wanted they could have it. But no one talks to me, however I now have a boy sat opposite my eating toast?

I reach out with my hand nearest him and he looks me dead in the eye, his eyes are camouflage green and swirl with interest. The eyes are the gate way to the soul. The colour changes suddenly to a mixture of stone grey and blue.
He isn't real.
He doesn't exist.
He's not really here.
I snatch violently at the air and his image fizzles about the room and dust gathers under the crate he was sat on. His eyes glare upwards. They're all that's left off him now, two fragile eyes a a chain. I hadn't noticed the chain before, it read "AVARICE". That's what he was, he came her because they wanted me. They wanted me more than anything and sent Aviary to get me.

I look up and blink back tears. I wanted a friend. I didn't want to be alone anymore. I wish someone else understood that. I slide the crate to the wall with my foot and stamp on the eyes; they must never see me.
Not now, not ever.
They mustn't know they've hurt me. Never see me cry.

And from that day on I've protected my privacy and knowledge the best I could and I knew then that I'm being hunted. I'm not normal. Now I'm completely alone. So I run.