The Created

Chapter 5: Histories

KYE

I emerge from behind the doorframe, blinking as I step into the dazzling light of the suns. I walk out onto the green grass of the courtyard, feeling its life under my wriggling toes; it's soft and cool, like walking on a blanket of clouds. I lift my face to the sky, letting the slow breeze tickle my face, inhaling deeply to feel the crisp morning air fill my lungs, cooling the heat which has long been rising within me.

With my eyes now fully adjusted, I see the fence that borders the courtyard and notice the intense color of everything around me. I whirl around and look up at the towering building that I'm leaving behind. A few stories up, I can see the room where I let hours slip through my fingers, watching the suns set over the world with Connor by my side.

That was not so long ago. How much bigger it looks from down here.

I hear a voice from the doorway. Connor. My best friend walks through the entryway and stops in front of me; he looks as happy and energetic as ever. I lean forward and let my arms wrap around him. I feel the happiness and anticipation radiating between us. Destined for a life of newfound freedom.

I pull away and notice the skin showing through Connor's sagging shirt. No scars! The flesh is smooth and undisturbed. All healed. I look up into Connor's leafy green eyes and smile, receiving one in return.

Then, filled with a new sense of adventure and purpose, I swing around and start off toward the courtyard gate with him. We lift the latch together and swing the iron gates wide with a mighty whoosh. As we step over the threshold, a woman runs by, pushing a child in a stroller. Two men walk past laughing, wrapped in joyous conversation. A man whizzes by on his bike, waving at us as he goes. I recognize all these people from my days in the Lookout. How wonderful it is to know that I finally get to enjoy a life amongst them.

I whip around to face Connor, smiling from ear to ear. But something's wrong. His face is twisted. He chokes feebly, his face contorting in pain. I look down to find a deep red stain spreading over Connor's chest. I cry out. Connor sputters and drops to his knees, clutching at his heart.

A tall man in a pristine suit sprints through the courtyard toward us. He's furious.

I scream, begging someone, anyone around us to send for help. I'm on the ground cradling Connor in my arms, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

Stay, stay with me, I'm shouting at Connor, but I can feel the last dregs of life draining from his limbs. A rescue vehicle skids around the corner of the street; its harsh, biting alarm pounds in my ears, like a constant, booming drum.

The man in the suit extends his arm. To grab us. To control us.

He's running and he's screaming and I'm crying and Connor droops and the man grabs my shirt...

And everything goes black. But the screaming alarm doesn't fade.

I open my eyes to find myself back in my cramped room. There's an outline of sweat on my bed and pillow, where I've been laying. The siren still squeals wildly.

I stand groggily and walk to the desk, pounding my fist on the alarm, which falls silent. The siren ceases.

I allow my body to lean heavily on the desk, feeling the fatigue in my limbs, breathing deeply.

It was a dream. (Thank goodness.) While it had been nice—freeing—to finally imagine leaving this place, that ending was anything but desirable. I squeeze my eyes tight and grit my teeth together, trying to forget the grotesque look on Connor's face just before he faded in my arms. I shake my head. If ever there was a time that a memory wipe would come in handy...