by Greg Dragon
Now all I believe in is pain.
Pain is the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the antidote for a hopeful heart. It comes in all different forms—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. Most days I like physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training with unbridled aggression. I make my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents simultaneously. And because I’m the President’s son, they have to obey me, have to attack. At first they’re timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadside of my steel blade they change, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.
I still have scars from those training sessions.
The beauty of physical pain is that it wipes out the other forms of pain. Not necessarily completely or for an extended period of time, but long enough to grant a reprieve from my tortured mind and soul.
“On guard!” Roc yells, his teeth clenched together like a wild beast. He’s realized I’m not going to speak to him about my mother. I’m glad he’s given up for the time being. His new approach: beat it out of me.
I don’t even have my weapon yet, but it doesn’t matter. Roc’s clumsy swings feel like they’re in slow motion, coming in at awkward angles, without any attempt to hide his intentions: he’s going for my head. He’s probably trying to knock some sense into me.
He knows better than that—I’ve taught him better. Feinting is as important as the actual attack. Disguising one’s intent is the key to fighting. But he’s on a mission. I know it’s because he cares about me—wants better for me—that he’s trying to crack me across the skull.
Not today.
I spin to the left and drop to a roll, hearing Roc’s wooden blade crash thunderously into the wall behind me. When I fight my senses seem to magnify. I’m looking in the other direction, reaching for my own practice blade, grasping it, but I can picture Roc’s blade rebounding off the wall, him repositioning his feet like I’ve taught him, his next swing…
I whirl around just in time, catching the tip of his sword low on my own. Thud! The sound is dull and won’t carry past the walls. We fight with wooden practice swords in the privacy of my room because no one can ever know I’m training my servant to fight. It’s nearly as effective as using metal practice swords out in the yard—I can teach him the proper technique, the footwork, the positions—but I know at some point we’ll need to find a place to practice with real swords. If he’s to get any better, that is.
Instinct takes over. That and years of the highest quality training that money can buy. Without thinking, I bend my knees, straighten my back, keep my hips aligned with my shoulders. Roc attempts to do the same, but in the wall-length mirror I can see that next to me he looks amateurish, awkward.
I’m not being vain. Just realistic. Roc needs lots of work on his posture. I can help with that. But not today. Today is about passionate fighting. At least for Roc. Me, I’m calm, unemotional, businesslike. Just like I’ve been taught.
I easily parry Roc’s next three attempts at taking my head off, and then duck the fourth, moving in close to his body and elbowing him hard in the chest. One of the most important lessons in sword fighting—especially for real, life or death, fight-like-there’s-no-tomorrow sword fighting—is to use all parts of your body. Most people assume that because you have a pointy sword you should use it exclusively. Not so.
With a grunt, Roc goes down hard. Lucky for him he crashes onto my bed, ruffling the perfectly ironed red comforter. One thing Roc has going for him is his athleticism. While not trained in the art of fighting, or of swordplay, he has a natural speed and quickness that is particularly effective on the defensive side. His speed temporarily saves him from another defeat at my hands.
After crushing him with my elbow, I continue surging forward, following him onto the bed and attempting to get the point of my dull wooden blade under his chin and against his neck, which is the requisite for victory.
He recovers beautifully, executing a graceful backwards roll, and manages to maintain his grip on the sword. He lands on his feet on the other side of the bed, grinning slightly. His brown skin is shining with sweat under the soft lantern glow. Outstretching his off-sword hand, he flicks his fingers back toward himself, as if to say, “C’mon, bring it!”
I bring it. I launch myself over the bed, pointing my sword forward like a battering ram. Roc is forced to jump backwards, which allows me to land on my feet and go on the offensive. I feint hard to the left and Roc completely buys it. When I go right he’s left exposed. I connect sharply under his ribs and then whip a leg behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet. He smashes onto his back, losing his sword in the process. When he reaches for it, I step on the wooden blade.
He gives me a wry grin.
I give him my hand.
Big mistake.
He grabs my hand and pulls hard, throwing off my center of gravity and forcing me over the top of him. Although I’ve been trained to maintain a firm grip on my sword at all times, even to the detriment of the rest of my body, it’s difficult to do in real life when every instinct is telling you to release your sword and use your hand to break your fall.
I practically throw my sword across the room. By the time I stop my fall and start moving to recover my sword, Roc’s quickness gives him the advantage. He already has his own sword in one hand, and mine in the other.
“A little cheap, but a victory nonetheless,” I say.
“My first one, sir,” Roc says, laughing.
I hate losing, but I laugh, too. Roc knows I hate it when he calls me sir in private. It’s his way of getting even with me for my unwillingness to talk about my feelings.
“Thanks, Roc,” I say, feeling a stronger bond with him than I’ve felt for anyone in a long time. Without him I’m not sure where I would be. A wreck for sure. Well, at least more of a wreck than I already am.
For no reason at all, an image flashes through my mind: the black-haired girl sitting on the stone bench; her sad, sad eyes; the eternal gulf between us bridged when our eyes meet. Then her fists are out to fight the ogre. Bone-crushing pain surges in my head.
That’s when I pass out.
Chapter Five
Adele
A riot breaks out as I make my way back to my cell. That’s the way things work in the Pen. You’re minding your own business and then you’re in the middle of a brawl. Like the one I’m in now.
A fist the size of a miner’s hammer bashes the side of my skull, forcing my eyes shut and sending stars dancing across my field of vision. When my sight returns, I see what hit me. Wielded by a tattooed mountain, the clenched fingers are like a wrecking ball, colliding with anything and everything in their destructive path. And I’m in the way.
I can fight the guy, but he isn’t even fighting me. He’s just fighting in general, swinging at anything that moves.
Each time I try to push through the human net surrounding us, claw-like hands force me into the center. Ducking under another arc of human flesh and bone, I fire back, aiming my own punch at his ribs. When I connect, tendrils of pain rip through my hand and explode up my forearm. I know how to punch, but for a moment I think I’ve punched the stone wall by mistake. The steroidal teenage mountain looms over me, finally focusing his violence on a single target: me. I’m in way over my head.
His fist is the size of a basketball as it cuts toward my face. There’s no time to move. I close my eyes.
I hear a groan before I’m knocked to the floor by a big body, but my head doesn’t hurt. When I open my eyes I’m surprised to see darkness on top of me. And then I’m pulled to my feet by Cole, who charges through the impenetrable human blockade, tossing surprised bodies to either side as he pulls me to safety.
We race down a hall and pass by guards who are striding in the other direction, their eyes sparkling with excitement, their knuckles white and gripping clubs and Tasers. They like when there are riots. It means they get to satisfy their lust for blood.
We turn a c
orner and nearly run into Tawni, who’s galloping toward us. Her eyes start on me, but then flick to Cole and widen. “Are you okay?” she says, lifting a hand to his face.
I follow her gaze to Cole’s eye, which is already swollen. I realize that the reason my head isn’t hurting is because Cole’s is. He took the hit for me, and took it well. I’ve been protecting myself for so long it feels weird to have someone else do something for me.
“I’m fine,” Cole says, pulling Tawni’s hand away from his face.
“Thanks, but—” I start to say.
“No problem.”
“I wasn’t finished. Thanks, but I could’ve handled him on my own. I know how to look after myself.” I’m being a brat, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Cole half-grins, half-grimaces. “Sure,” he says.
“No, really, I was fine,” I say. “I know how to fight.”
“If you say so,” Cole replies. “It just looked like that dude was gonna make mincemeat out of your face, but next time I guess I won’t bother…”
I take a deep breath, try to stop being the cold, isolated person I’ve become. “Sorry…I mean…thanks. Yes, thank you—that’s what I meant to say.”
“No problem,” Cole repeats. “Now we better get into our cells before that riot spills out this way.”
I know he’s right because I can hear the roar of chaos growing louder. I don’t know what else to say, so I leave them and head back to my lonely cell.
* * *
The sunlight retreats along the white windowsill. With each passing minute, the shadows lengthen, until the light gives way to a troubled darkness, gray and soggy. The dark clouds challenge the omniscient sun, and the clouds prevail, like a black-armored army descending upon a shining and pure city of light. Skeins of rain beat upon the panes of glass. Moisture splutters under the base of the barely opened window, leaving the painted sill slick and wet. A few drops gather and push forward to the edge, slipping off and onto the plush brown carpet.
If only.
I wish that’s what I am seeing. Only I’ve never seen sunlight. Or sunshine, or sunbeams, or even a ray of sun. Those are just words in books—not real. Nor have I seen rain—or clouds, for that matter. Like sunlight, those are things of myth and legend. As told by my grandmother, who was told by her mother—a story passed down for generations. Not even my father has seen the sun. Or my father’s father. Or my father’s father’s father. You get the picture.
But no, I’m not seeing rain, or clouds, or much of anything. Just the inside of my pitiful gray cell inside the Pen. The walls are made of stone. And the ceiling. And the floors. Even the bed. Shocking, I know. It seems that everything in my world is made of stone.
Weird that we’re called Moon Dwellers, when none of us have even seen the moon, much less dwelt on it. We’re still stuck on earth. Well, not on earth so much as in it, at least a mile below the deadly surface. I’m not sure who the idiot was who decided to call us Moon Dwellers, but I’d guess he or she was a Sun Dweller. It seems that most of the dumb ideas come from them. In school they told us that the logic behind the names is related to how bright each light source appears in the sky. For example, the sun appears the brightest—at least that’s what we’re told and how it looks in the pictures—and therefore, those nearest to the surface should be called Sun Dwellers. We’re next and are like the moon, second brightest. At the bottom, of course, are the Star Dwellers, miles from the earth’s surface. I also heard that there are some references to this kind of thing in the Bible, too, but I’ve never read it so I’m not sure if it is true. Bottom line: I think the names are stupid.
I’d prefer them to be called Deep, Deeper, and Deepest.
No matter how they spin things, it’s a class system, one predicated on those at the top being worth more than those at the bottom. My grandmother said the distinctions between the classes are more obvious in our world, but that it had been the same when people lived above the earth, only no one talked about it as much.
I’ve also heard stories about how the Sun Realm has buildings made of wood, a substance that comes from the trunks of trees. I’ve only seen pictures of trees. Old pictures saved from up above. Or pictures my grandmother drew for me based on what her mother told her. They have all kinds of plants up there, or so people say. It’s almost like they are living aboveground, with a synthetic sun, fake rain, and artificial stars that come out at night. Why they are so privileged, I may never know. I grit my teeth and try to think about something else.
My thoughts turn to my new friends, Cole and Tawni. With their sudden entrance into my life, I now have puzzles to solve. Clearly they haven’t told me everything. I mean, who would? They’ve just met me, barely know me. I certainly haven’t told them everything about my past, although I’ve told them a lot more than I planned to. Something about the way they looked at each other tells me there’s more to their story than they’ve let on.
An electronic voice blares through the speaker in my ceiling. “All guests are in their rooms. Lights out in exactly five minutes.”
I roll my eyes like I usually do when I hear the announcement. They’re always trying to make us feel better about our situation. It’s like just because we’re juveniles, the so-called adults can’t be honest with us. Guests? Really? We’re locked up, our freedoms restricted beyond recognition. Everyone knows we’re inmates, plain and simple.
And rooms? Come on. I look around my “room” as if I’m seeing it for the first time. No windows. A thin slat in the door is used to let air in and to speak through. It’s a cell. Sometimes I awake from a restless sleep and find the walls closing in on me, threatening to suffocate me, crush me. Sometimes I wish they would.
I’ve heard they named it the Pen after the word playpen, like a young child’s little safety enclosure, full of toys and bright-colored bobbles and trinkets. But it just makes me think of the longer version of the word it’s really short for: penitentiary.
I’m not sure whether they sugarcoat everything to help us sleep at night, or to help them sleep at night. Either way, it’s a waste of time.
The lights go out and I’m thrust into abject darkness.
I learned in school about the biological changes that humans have slowly undergone, generation after generation, since moving underground. We gained improved night vision due to long exposure to dim or no lighting. Our senses of hearing and smell have been heightened, making us less reliant on our slightly improved sight. Our skin has become paler and dustier. Human lungs are now more resistant to the constant intake of rock dust. Evidently, average life expectancies are about twenty years shorter than when humans lived aboveground, but no one really talks about it. Long story short: we’ve adapted, for better or worse.
Having a sudden urge, I manage to half-roll off the thin padding on my stone cot and stumble to the corner, where there’s a small hole in the floor. I squat and manage to relieve myself before collapsing back into bed.
In the dark, I bend my legs and flex them at the knees a few times, trying to get some feeling back. My eyes are quickly adjusting to the dark and I can just make out the faint outline of the slot in the door. I close my eyes but sleep continues to evade me.
Finally, I fall asleep.
* * *
My body’s convulsing, shaking uncontrollably, rattling my teeth as I make an unearthly, high-pitched noise. Tristan’s standing nearby, just watching.
I wake up, not shaking, not screaming. Just a dream. Just a dream.
Once more, I drift off to sleep.
* * *
The lights blink on and the computer voice screeches through the speaker. “Good morning. All guests may now exit their rooms for the day,”—I hear the click of the lock on my door—“breakfast will be served in the cafeteria.” As if it would be served anywhere else.
I lie in bed for a few minutes, blinking, trying to remember the strange dream that woke me in the middle of the night. I can’t. It’s like the dream has been permanently del
eted from my memory. Logically, I know what the dream was about—me being in pain, Tristan watching—but I can’t seem to remember the feelings from it.
I sigh, not because I remember the dream, but because I forget it. Swinging my legs over the bed, I force myself up. Some days I feel like staying in bed all day, but that’s not permitted. One of the stewards—their name for prison guards—will eventually come and make me leave my cell, by force if necessary. It isn’t worth the hassle.
I go through my morning routine—use the “bathroom,” do a few stretches, feel sorry for myself—and then exit my “room.” First stop is the washroom. To my surprise, I find myself hoping—almost wishing—that Tawni will be in there. It feels weird looking forward to seeing someone again. Especially someone in the Pen. All the people I usually want to see are on the outside, or more likely, dead. Like my sister, who I hope is still alive.
The washroom has a few toilets, but I prefer the hole in my floor, because none of the stalls have doors. There are no mirrors—no one cares about their appearance in the Pen—and a simple trough-style basin covers one whole wall.
A bunch of girls are already using the trough: washing their faces, combing their hair with their fingers, brushing their teeth. The Pen management provides loads of crappy, gritty toothpaste, but no toothbrushes, so we’re forced to use our fingers. I scan the line of girls, looking for Tawni’s long, white hair.
She isn’t here.
I feel a bump from behind as another girl pushes past me and into the washroom. “Move it,” she says. Evidently I’m standing in the doorway. Even still, a simple “Excuse me” would’ve done the trick.
I go to work on my teeth, rubbing hard with my index finger to clean off the stale saliva still inhabiting my mouth. I rinse my mouth out with a swish of brown water from the rusty faucet. I can never understand why all the water in the Pen is brown. It’s like they purposely add dirt to it. Most of the water in the Moon Realm—or at least our subchapter—is clear, having been filtered naturally as it flows through the rocky tunnels around us. It’s just another way to punish us, I guess.
