Beyond the Tower

Part One: The Peasant | One | Desert Cries

"And she was so pitiless that she took poor Rapunzel into a desert where she had to live in great grief and misery"

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I'm not used to this.

The dry air on my neck, the light feeling, almost like I'll fall forwards, since I'm so used to leaning that way to balance out the weight. The conspicuous lack of, anything, pressing against my back. To walk without the sound of dragging behind me, the heavy, bothersome, yet so comforting, so familiar feeling. It feels free, yet so horribly constricting at the same time.

I don't know what to do with myself. The agony claws fiercely at my heart like a starving leopard tearing into its hapless prey. It's all I can to not to break down crying again, but I know that losing tears will dry me out, and I cannot afford that when there is already so little water.

I always lamented on how horrible my life was, yet never really appreciated how much I had. Always wanted out, and now that I am, there's nothing I want more than to be back in. Always thought Mother's iron grip was a compressing monster, but now, now I know that it was the epitome of kindness. I've never known the outside, and I'm scared. And without my hair, I don't really know who I am anymore.

It's impossible to tell how long I've stayed thus far. The tree fruits within my reach are nearly gone and after I've consumed them I don't know what I'll do. They're vile, so nasty that for the first couple of days here, I'd chosen starvation over than stomaching them. Nevertheless, the feeling of death from the inside out quickly changed my mind. At least they're something. Furthermore, the little oasis I've found seems to be drying up; the little pool of water shrinks a little each day as if taunting me. I'm not sure how that's even possible with just me drinking from it. I've been conserving, I've been good, and it shouldn't be possible. Perhaps it's my imagination. I'm sure I'm going crazy, after all.

My once fair skin has turned a particularly unpleasant shade of red. It's constantly blistering and peeling, so much that I no longer notice when a new bubble of skin forms, then pops. I'm sure I've lost more flakes of dry, dead skin in the past few days then my whole life before this. My feet are always, always, burning. Their soles have long since hardened with calluses, and each step brings fresh pain, always enough makes me wince, at the least.

My beautiful purple dress that I embroidered myself to combat endless hours of boredom has turned a putrid shade of grey. It's frayed as well, with ragged edges the clawing fingertips of some gross grey monster. Still, it is too much, and I wonder why I even have some sense of modesty after everything has been taken. The heavy silk is nearly unbearable in this heat. And besides, it's not like anyone can see me. That, would require a sentient being around here, dead or alive. But no, there's nothing. In my tower and out, I guess I'm doomed to solitude, to being the only creature to the horizon and beyond.

I've been pampered my whole life. Pampered, and yet I complained, when my only problem was that I had no contact excepting that of Mother. And now that I am outside, I have so much less. Now, I have next to nothing to eat and drink, and nobody for company.

But perhaps the worst of all, worse than all of my physical ailments, is the loss of him. No, not perhaps. Certainly. I would take all this pain, and a hundredfold more, for just one more day with my beloved.

The loss of him has created more agony than I could ever have fathomed. The feeling of losing a heart. The terrible pain, worse than anything and everything else, the heartbreak that keeps me awake at night. He understood me, he knew me, he was what made my tower tolerable.

Tolerable. It's ironic. What once seemed barely tolerable, I would now kill to return to.

What happened to him, I wonder. Did he come back to my tower in high spirits, only to find me gone? Did Mother do something to him? Does he lie awake at night wondering what has become of me? Does he even care? What would he think of me now, now that I've lost my beauty, my sanity, and everything that made me myself. I may never know.