His Lonely Wooden Tower

It was tall. It stretched away to the sky in defiance of gravity and wind. Concrete, steel, glass. It was always there, our home amongst the clouds. It was invincible. It was all we knew.

I spent my whole life there. My parents brought me back from the concrete hospital into the cold, protective arms of that place. When I was younger, I rode the elevator in play with the other children or we swam in the underground pool, full of cleansing chlorine. We barely felt the sun, the balconies were off-limits and the outside was dangerous. It was full of predators for the young and foolish. Only occasionally did my parents permit it and with a strict chaperon. The whole of my world existed in that lonely tower. Friends, lessons, sports, music all took place on different floors. Yet the structure was always the same, reliable, impenetrable.

Food was magical and mysterious. It came from somewhere. We never really knew where, it was always just there. I gobbled it up quickly, eager to get back to a screen or a friend. I barely recognized the taste. Maybe there wasn't one. It was just energy to keep me going, keep me growing so I could take my place in this great tower we'd build. Food wasn't important to my parents, or so it seemed. The truth was they couldn't cook not that it mattered there. You could buy anything as long as you could afford it.

Real things didn't matter anymore. In that way it was more than a child's fantasy world. Goods, materials, resources we called them, just came in and our waste went out. It didn't matter where from, just that they were there. They were always there.

I grew up there. Learned that world and had in pounded into the inside of my skull. If you could somehow turn me inside out you would see the complex lines of code I wrote, the empty essays I produced, the disappointing pictures I drew. All there, drilled into the hard yet supple skull, like a concussion.

Then one day, we were forced to leave the place we had built.

It happened so fast, or at least it seemed to happen so fast. I was in my home, watching a screen, learning masked as entertainment. It was a show about birds. Birds sometime flew into tall buildings like my home. Scientists were working on a way to install a chip in each bird so that it could be warned that a building was coming up. It was sensational work. I often dreamed of helping animals in this way, animals that were outside the tower, not locked in cages within. Imagine how many birds I could save? What a career that would be.

Then all of a sudden, instantly, an alarm sounded within the walls. It was deafening so I put my hands to my ears in pain. Over the alarm I could hear the booming mechanical voice. "Warning, fire. Please calmly proceed to the safe room in your unit. Help is on the way".

My mother was home with me. She was in another room. She whisked into action on command. She swooped down and pushed me to the special room off her bedroom. The place that we would be safe, that no fire would reach.

There were supplies there. Enough for a few days. We sat and waited for orders. We didn't speak much. She handed me a granola bar and a bottle of water. We waited.

There was a small speaker in the room. Occasionally in crackled and my mother perked up, ready for her parental orders. Yet, no words came. We slept on the hard floor. We had neglected blankets in our rush. We assumed it would be a short stay before receiving the standard communique that all was well and back to normal. A mere blip. They often happened this way. Even this place had the occasional hiccup.

Several days past. I was eager to wander outside and sore from the floor; she didn't complain. Surely the fire had burned itself out, I pleaded with her. It's dangerous, was her standard reply. We have to wait.

The food and water were depleting. We didn't talk much. A terrible realization was dawning on both of us. Though my mother most of all. She had known only this world. This protection from fear, from doubt. Now doubts were creeping in.

One morning I woke up but she didn't. I don't know what happened to her. Maybe she realized that we would have to push open the solid, steel door and she was scared what was on the other side. I wept beside her holding her hand, a hand that had moulded me as much as this dark, tall place I called home. Parents are gods but even they have masters.

I stayed with her for most of that day. She became cool to the touch. But my eyes were always fixed on the door, the unknown. I knew I was alone. My father had likely joined her; she was always stronger. I pretended that they would be together.

I stood up. Walked to the door and put my hand on it. It was as cold as my mother's fading skin. A fire might rage outside, or nothing. Either way, no one was coming to help me, authority had failed. I was the only one who could save myself. It required courage. I stood there for quite some time, fearful. But really I only had one choice. I turned the handle and pushed with all my growing strength. This was my time and my challenge.

What I saw on the other side of that door was both wondrous and terrifying. And for once, I was alive.