I stand there, watching the flickering shadows pass in front of the blue light. | |||||||||||
“Hey.”
A voice right beside me makes me jump, but I instantly recognize my friend, Fyn.
“How do you always manage to sneak up on me?” I sigh, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
“It’s easy, Ora,” he replies in a joking tone. “You’re just slow.”
“And you’re just mean.”
He pauses. “Do you sometimes wonder what that blue switch does? What if it’s freedom?”
“Freedom?”
“From this, you know.”
I turn to look at him. His silhouette is so familiar to me- it’s all I can see of him. An outline of his oddly large ears and slightly messy hair. His tall, skinny figure. Sometimes, I wonder what he really looks like. Sometimes, I wonder what I look like, besides a blurry shadow in a mirror.
“Even if it was the switch to freedom, no one would ever switch it,” I tell him flatly. “There are all of the guards. If someone stepped anywhere close to that blue light, they would be pulverized.”
“Ever if they weren’t, there would still be the Guardian to deal with.” Fyn says quietly.
We are both silent. The Guardian is what our leader calls himself. Twice a day, he comes over an intercom system, speaking to us, reminding us of his love for us, his people, and his great want to protect us from the evil of the outside world. That’s why he keeps us in the dark, to protect us. His raspy, deep voice has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember; it often echoes in my dreams, and my nightmares. But, we still listen to the bi-daily intercom announcements. In fact, most of the adults I know that live here treat The Guardian like an idol. They constantly remind us how much he cares about his people. But, Fyn and I both have our doubts.
“How can darkness protect us?” Fyn whispers. “Just because we’re told that it does by him and by everyone around us doesn’t mean that it’s true.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” I tell him in a guarded tone. “So, now we should stop talking about it.”
Most of our conversations end this way. But this time, it doesn’t.
“No.” Fyn says. “That’s not true either. We can do something. I can. I will.”
I look at him, then I turn to look at the glowing blue light.
“No,” I whisper in reply.
“Yes,” he snaps back.
“Why would you risk your life just to flip that switch? What if they…kill you? Then what?”
“What if they do?” Fyn replies. “What if this isn’t about what happens to me, but what happens to everyone here? We’re all so lost; it’s not the darkness that is holding us captive; it’s fear. Everyone is so lost in their own fear that they forget there are others who are just as lost as they are. I want these people and the generations after them to live in light, not darkness. This isn’t about me.”
“Stop speaking empty words,” I tell him in a quiet voice. “You know perfectly well that you’re just trying to sound like you care. How could you when no one else does? In here, no one would ever risk themselves, unless they knew they were coming out alive so they could enjoy the results of their bravery for themselves. That’s the way it is. The hero only risks himself so he can create a better world for himself to live in; it is all about him.”
“Then he isn’t a hero,” Fyn replies. “If you excuse me, I actually have to go; I promised my parents I would be home in time for supper.”
He heads towards his family’s house, built in the tunnel only about a mile away from my home.
“You can’t be serious,” I tell him. “This was just an ensuing joke between us, this whole talk about the switch and all, wasn’t it?”
“If you don’t think I’m serious, then I don’t see how you know me at all, Ora. I thought you, of all people, would understand.”
Nighttime is my least favorite part of the day. The only way I can tell it is nighttime is because of the Guardian’s good night intercom speech. That is always the signal to all of us that we should start getting ready to sleep. Usually, I fall asleep almost instantly after he finishes his ending remarks, but tonight, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring through my window at the blue light. It is so close to our house, my whole room is illuminated by it. The flickering shadows pass in the same, systematic patterns over and over again. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I can hear their heavy feet. Clash. Clash. Clash. I can hear the chains dragging across the floor. The rhythm is almost hypnotizing. Suddenly, the rhythm breaks. Someone is yelling. Others join in. A crash. Someone screaming. A jarring gunshot. It all happens within seconds. Then, the most frightening but wonderful moment of my life. A flood. A bright flood. Burning in through my windows. I fall to the floor on my knees, my eyes burning, dizziness causing me to feel nauseous. I squint, clutching at my head, crying out in pain. Hours pass. My eyes are slowly adjusting to this. Colors. I can see colors! I examine my hands, covered with tiny lines and nails. So this is what my hands looked like this whole time; I could feel them, but I never knew what color they were, or what they looked like. I run to a mirror. My eyes! They are a dark, rich color with such precise detail and lines within them. And they can see more then they’ve ever seen now. I slowly step towards my door and open it. The silence is overwhelming. People all around are slowly emerging into the light, looking at their surroundings with awe. We are all gathering in the center of the tunnel slowly. Suddenly, a man rushes through the crowd.
“Everyone! Back in your houses.”
My stomach somersaults. His voice is unmistakable; it is The Guardian. But as he wades through the crowd, I see a scrawy old man, hobbling along with the assistance of a long wooden cane in one hand. He is holding a pistol in the other hand. Two middle-aged men, both of them at least a foot taller than The Guardian grab him by the arms and throw him to the ground.
We don’t respect him anymore. Everyone suddenly notices each other. They are enthralled as they finally see each other clearly. Parents are kneeling in front of their children, gazing into their eyes for the first time. But, I’m thinking about something else. The guards. Fyn. I look around for the blue switch. I finally find it, faintly pulsing about the bright light, mounted to a tall pole. It is switched on. Below it, there are several speakers playing recordings of marching guards and dragging chains. A circular machine with guard-shaped boards mounted on it spins around the pole. There were no guards. But then, I remember the gunshot and the pistol The Guardian had been holding.
“Fyn.” I whisper.
I step past the machine that is still spinning around monotonously and stand right beside the pole. Underneath the switch, I see the body of a boy. His slightly messy hair is the same rich shade of my eyes. His ears are just as conspicuous and strange as I remember from seeing him as a shadowy silhouette. He is smiling. But, most of all, I notice his eyes. Their color. Although I don’t know the names of many colors, I know what this one is called. It’s beautiful and indescribable, but utterly recognizable. They are blue.
His voice echoes in my head still, “It’s not about me.”
Most people don’t notice him. They forget to remember the boy who saved all of them from the perilous darkness; they just continue on with their lives, accepting the free gift of freedom they’ve received, adapting rapidly to the light and slowly becoming so accustomed to it that they become indifferent to it, numb to its beauty and hope. But, I don’t forget. I never will.
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