Beyond the Wall

Philippe

“Resist!” the voice screams in my head once again. I flinch and slowly sit up in my thin cot on a squeaky, flimsy, metal frame. I swear, if I had a king pence for every time I had a strange dream or a weird voice in my head, then I’d have enough money to buy the Manor from the king.

I look around my empty, cold, rough concrete wall and old gruff wooden floored room. It isn’t small, but it isn’t large either. It’s just empty. There’s no artificial lighting in the room, and the only reason I can even see in my room is because of the light that illuminates it from a singular small window. The window is too high and small for me to see out of, but it’s large enough to allow the morning sunrise to wake me up, and start my walk to school or work before anyone else in the city finishes their breakfast.

I walk over to my small washroom that is right next to my bedroom and wash my face and hands. I grip the side of the small, dingy, white, stand-alone sink, infuriated at what has just happened again.

I mean, it’s hard enough to live near the edge of the world where all the aristocrats and peasants shun you because you’re so close to the wall, but it’s even worse to be an orphan. Then, on top of all of that, I keep having all these strange dreams and weird thoughts. I don’t know in this day and age if I can fall any lower then I already am. I have to push through it though. I have to remember what Caregiver always tells me: “You were always weak and scrawny, it’s beyond me why His Majesty has kept you this long. If it were up to me, you and your dirty mystery father would have been found and executed by now, you stupid ignorant piece of junk.”

This all started one day when I asked my caregiver why I’m an orphan. She said that my mother had me before she was wed, and as the law required, she was eliminated. So from that day on, whenever I complained or if caregiver was ever bored, she would say those words and I would always feel that I was so lucky that our gracious king had the heart to think of keeping me, a pathetic orphan, alive.

So, I take a deep breath and pull myself together. I brush my light straggly brown hair, then I go over to my small closet and pick out a pair of ripped jeans and a tan baggy tee shirt. I remember that I have to be thankful for what I have, but if my dreams could go away, then at least I’d be as normal as any other orphan. But no--my dreams still are there and they won’t go away. No matter how much “medicine” they give me.

The--well, what the orphans call the buzz, everyone else call it medicine, is something that was implanted in all the orphans when they were three years old. It creates a pitch that disrupts brain waves, making someone lose their train of thought. Yet this painful and torturous drug can’t stop the voice or dreams coming in my head, it just shortens the time a little bit.

I slowly change into my jeans and tee shirt, and I walk down the creaky old stairs, careful not to wake caregiver. I go down to the main entrance that leads into the kitchen and a small living room, where I find Vinson, my best and only friend, sleeping on the couch. I roll my eyes and cover Vinson’s uncovered shoulder with his thin cotton blanket. I look up at the small face clock hanging in the kitchen. It’s 6:30 AM I grin. Well, I guess I’ll let Vinson sleep in today.

Vinson and I have been together for as long as I can remember; we have the same caregiver. Like me, he’s an orphan who also has the buzz. Besides us, there is one other orphan in the world, but neither of us have any idea who he or she is.