While I'm Up Here

It's cold, and rainy. I'm is in the tower, no one is in the square to watch from the tower, and "Queen Jillianu" is downstairs in the corridor signing release papers for yet another news story on the prisoners in Ykea. The land I've has known as home, the wide spread land of Qwel, is silent. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to live. To be out there, in the weather, in the world. Not up here, kicking dust mites and making friends with shadows and bricks on the walls. I'm not a prisoner. Not a traitor. Not stuck accidentally. I'm endangered. That's what they told me. On my 6th birthday, too. Aungelou was over, and we were about to slice my cake, generously baked by Aunge's dad, the city baker. It was beautiful. Candles glimmering, the light danced off out eyes. My hair was pulled back by Mom, and we were huddled around the coffee table. But then they just… walked in. Didn't stop to ring. Didn't do they playful "knock and enter", they just stormed into our living room, and took the cake. Some scientist man took some of the icing and put it on a bag with tweezers. I have to wonder how effective it was. Any way, they took the cake, Aunge, me… Everything was gone. That was the last time I saw my dear friend. Or anything outside since I was put up here. The view is great, but who really wants to live up here? Cold, exposed, blocked out from the world. Unreachable, except by the long, winding stairs leading to the top, climber once a day by each of five people. Three bring my meals, two come to tutor me. I may be living in an old tower, but I'm still royalty. They took me that day because where they had been hiding me before wasn't good enough. Living in the suburbs of America wasn't good enough. So they brought us here, underground, where I was supposedly safe. In my opinion, if I was safe in Qwel, I didn't need to be locked up here. I should be downstairs. Running my kingdom. I've only been up here for seven years, it's not like I haven't had plenty of time to learn that the world is dangerous, that the palace was safe, the tower had a great view, and not to get involved in ragamuffin fights. Those poor beggars. Ha ha, they're "poor" so the beg! I crack myself up. The sounds of footsteps rattle the metal gate blocking me from the stairs. The grime on the wall caked on after years of neglect and abuse, and me drawing on them with crayons and any other colored wax I came in contact with along with about forty tacos and maybe a burger somewhere in there from when we had substitute chef Avery from Taiwan, a huge mistake. I would rather have jumped out of the window than suffered through that. So everyday, I would take a little of my breakfast and lunch and hide it in a little bag Dr. Chandra gave me back when her first started coming to teach me. And every night, I would eat that small amount for dinner and feed my helping of mush to the rats and birds. I hope they didn't go puke it up somewhere while it was still somewhat recognizable…

A guard is coming to feed me my afternoon meal. I can smell it, and it's beautiful on my nose. I smirk, and run up to the cage, expecting to see an old friend, Sergeant Coronado, but this wasn't my grey faced, rosy cheeked, bearded and mustached old man. It was a boy. My age. And he was carrying a silver tray, and a long stick.