Zoldyck
4 years ago
I met a boy when I ran away from home. I'm not going to tell you his name. His name is the only thing that still feels like a secret of mine. Dad never found out. He was too busy with his other projects. He still doesn't know that I come to see him every day before the sunsets.
This boy lives on the other side of the hills, in the Slums. He told me, when we met, that he was playing in the forest. It didn't make a lot of sense to me. I didn't know what playing was. In my life, there was only waking up, eating, lessons, training, eating if I was good, lessons again, training again, then sleep. Sometimes, my dad let me watch while he did experiments. He said it was good for me to learn. When I asked him what playing was, he hit me across the face. His hand was bleeding because of my mask. I bandaged it just like he taught me.
I wanted to see outside so badly. Not just the training ground outside the house, but the real outside. The woods and the mountains around our house. My dad was always gone before sunsets for a few hours. He left and so did all the people that work for him. When I'm alone, it's easy to sneak out. I go through my window where there aren't any cameras. There I can run behind the southernmost wall and take a passageway through the forest.
There isn't much but dirt. Dirt and trees. I like the smells though. The bark and the leaves, the subtle traces that even if I don't see them, there's been animals around. I like the lack of fences and technology. I like the boy I met a year ago. He taught me what playing is. He smiles a lot. I like how he makes me feel. I like that he calls me his friend.
"You have another cut again," He says, reaching for my face, his fingers trailing the nicks of my father's nails next to my eye and over my cheek.
"It doesn't hurt," I say, leaning away.
He sighs, gives a smile that's cut off. I think it means that he understands, but at the same time still wants to help. He always wants to help me.
"If you want we can go swimming," He offers, rocking his legs back and forth, the heels of his hands in the moss. The two of us are sitting on a log. "Summer's not over yet."
"No, I don't want to," I say. My hands sit in my lap. I don't move much. I like how he moves. He looks like he's never had a chain around his wrists or had any weight holding him down.
When we run together, playing tag as he calls it, he runs so freely. Sometimes, he has to remind me to be gentle. One time I pushed him into the leaves and scraped up his face. He just laughed about it, but I felt bad. Afterward, we played hide and seek. I got scared and thought he just left. He didn't. He's actually very bad at hiding. He always says he likes playing with me. He likes talking to me. Sometimes he can talk for the whole of the hours we're together. I like that too.
"Can you tell me things?" I ask, looking at his hands. They're so different from my fathers.
"Tell you things?"
"Like-" I try to think. He's told me about playing, about school, about his family. I think I just like his voice. It's kinder than my father's, gentle. "How did you escape?" I ask.
"Escape?"
"Your house."
"Oh," He smiles, this time it reaches his eyes. "I just ask my dad."
"My dad never lets me leave," I tell him. "I have to lie."
"You don't tell him you're coming to see me? Even just to play?" He asks like it's such an obvious thing. It only took me one day to realize how different our lives were. I don't ever tell him where I'm actually from or who my dad is. That's too dangerous.
