"There is nothing beyond the walls. There never has been, and there never will be."
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There is a Wall that surrounds the city of Destinus. It’s been there my entire life, and people say it was there centuries before. Some think that the Wall wasn’t always there, that it was built thousands of years ago for the protection of our city against outsiders. Others say it was there since the dawn of time, protecting our city when humans didn’t even exist yet. All in all, nobody can remember when it was created, therefore causing curiosity to spark the mind and begin to produce unreasonable or even outlandish theories.
I’ve never thought that hard about the Wall before. All I know is that it was there since the day I was born, looming over the tops of the buildings like a hard stone statue. Nobody has ever tried to climb it, and just the mention of doing so will get dark and stern looks in your direction. People say the Wall is there for protection, and that there is no use to even fathom trying to see what is on the other side.
Bad things, people say, very bad things.
I never knew if I believed them, or if they even believed themselves. It was something you just didn’t think about. It was there, and it was never going away.
***
I watch as the paint slides across the canvas, creating a perfect streak of color that brightens the dull whiteness. I watch closely as the paint drips down to the bottom, seeping into the pores of the cotton page and slipping off at the very end to fall soundlessly on my socks. I glance down at them curiously, before tilting my head at the image in front of me. Dipping my paintbrush back into the swirling colors, I add another streak as I carelessly toss a strand of my blonde hair back behind my shoulder. The colors pop out in front of me, causing the familiar sensation of awe as it mixes with the first color, the two of them merging together to create something new entirely. A whole new color forms just by the mixing of things so unalike. Two things that look nothing like each other, when brought together, could turn into something beautiful.
I breath in the scent of the paint deeply, letting the familiarity of it relax my bones and muscles. I listen to the soft plopping sound of the paint still dripping to the floor, creating a tiny puddle to form just in front of my toes. Everything mixed together, the sounds, the sights, the smells, were things I would never trade in. I could paint forever.
When the clock dings, a sound that sends a sudden jolt through my dreamlike state, it snaps me back to reality as I slowly open my eyes. I was still in the attic, a room that had once been deserted but I had turned it into an art studio. The walls are covered with colors, spread across canvases that tell a story no matter how small the paper is. The floor has the mistake of being made of white carpet, because it shines brightly with dripped or spilled paint in all directions. Some may say it looks like a mess, but I think it looks unique. There is a shelf covered with paint brushes of all shapes and sizes, and a row right beneath with my different colored paints. I didn’t have all the colors I wanted, it was hard to find things like that anymore, but occasionally when my older brother could afford it, he would buy me a new color on my birthday. It was the only thing I ever asked for each year, and he was the only one who thought to buy it for me. I ponder for a second the fact that my sixteen birthday is in a few weeks, and which color I would ask for.
Glancing at the clock that was still dinging loudly next to me, I quickly take off the apron that is draped over my front and lie it down on an empty chair next to me. I quickly wipe my paint smeared hands on my jeans, adding another colorful layer to the mess they already were. I tuck my simple white shirt into them, fluffing up my hair and letting it drape gently around the shoulders. My time for painting was over, and I glare at the clock in annoyance as I quickly shut it up with the press of a button. It was 6:00; Dinnertime.
I make my way to the small trap-door built into the floor, opening in carefully and sliding myself down to the ladder underneath. It wasn’t a far crawl down to the floor, and within seconds I quietly thudded to the wooden floor. I can hear the sounds of conversation in the kitchen, located at the end of the hallway, and I can feel my heart begin to speed up as I slowly walk towards it. Dinnertime was always hard for our family, ever since my dad disappeared. I was eight when it happened, coming home from school only to find my mom an absolute wreck as my brother, twelve at the time, was trying to get her to tell him what happened. All she ever said was that some men came by one day and told her that her husband was presumed dead, because he never showed up to work and nobody throughout the entire city could find him. They never found his body, but everybody just presumed that his sudden disappearance made it obvious what happened to him. He could have fallen into one of the city sewer entrances, or he could have gotten hit by a car, or he tried to commit suicide for all anyone knew. Rumors went around back then, everyone trying to figure out what happened to Mr. Derrick Nightingale. I heard them all, and yet I could never bring myself to think of a theory myself.
My mom shut down after that, descending slowly each year further and further into brokenness. At first she tried to fake it, pretending to be present and reassuring as she hugged me tightly, telling me that everything was okay as I sobbed into her shoulder. My brother always attempted to be brave about it, now that he was the only man in the house, but his room was right next to mine, and I would hear him cry himself to sleep at least once every week. I always wanted to go in and comfort him, but at the time I felt like it wasn’t my place. It was mom’s, but as the weeks went by, she got more and more distant. I used to be really close with my brother as we grew up, but we began to grow apart as did mom. I would spend most days alone, walking to school on my own and returning home, where I would sit in the attic for hours and play make believe. The attic felt safe to me, away from all the chaos of my family downstairs. When I was ten, I began to get into painting, deciding to make use for the attic which I always stayed in. As my brother got older, he began to try to get closer to me again, buying me my first can of paint of my eleventh birthday as a way to make up for all the years he stayed away. I accepted him back happily, but the two of us were never really as close as were before. There was always some form of awkwardness between us, even when we were having fun together.
He never stopped trying though, and for that I am grateful. He helped me set up the attic as a painting studio, and started the tradition of buying me paint every year. He was nineteen, so he was able to get a simple job in the Factories. It didn’t pay much, but since he was the only one currently working, it was enough to keep our family stable for the time being.
Taking a deep breath, I quietly slipped into the dining room and caught sight of my mother and brother. It was a small room, but cozy, with a medium sized dining table that filled up most of the space. It is covered with a light blue table cloth that hung off at the edges, and four chairs are placed neatly around it. Every time I walk into the kitchen I pause for a moment to stare at the empty chair, imagining the smiling face of my father sitting there with his plate of dinner. It used to make me sad, but now it was just a habit that I never broke.
"Alana, dear," I hear my mother say, and I found my muscles stiffening. I was standing in the doorway awkwardly, so I slowly entered into the room fully and slid into a seat next to my brother, Emazz. He glanced over at me with a small nod of greeting, before turning back to my mother and lying his hand on top of her pale one. He looked just like our father, with blonde hair that appeared almost white in the sun. He has his same color eyes as well, dark brown, and as he grows older I begin to see more and more similarities develop between them. I, however, got my looks from my mother. I got her straight dirty blonde hair and her piercing green eyes, as well as her thin and tiny form. I look nothing like my brother, who was tall and strong, and I sometimes wonder if we are even related.
"Hello mother," I answer her, mustering up a kind smile as I force myself to lock eyes with her. It was something I didn't want to do often, because it just reminded me how different she looked. Her blonde hair was now streaked with grey, even though she was only forty two. Her eyes, which used to be as bright and clear as mine, were now a dull and lifeless green. Her skin is pale, and her body appears to grow thinner and thinner every year, causing my anxiety and fear for her health to sink lower and lower. If I didn't look at her, maybe I could imagine our family was still one piece again.
"Eat up," I hear Emazz say, and I gratefully broke eye contact with mother to turn to look at him. He was gesturing to my bowl in front of me, which consisted of a dark brown broth with a few big chunks of floating vegetables. It looked anything but appetizing, but meals were made for their nutrients and health factor, not their appearance or flavor.
"Homework hour is soon," Emazz continued, rubbing his thumb over mother's hand comfortingly. As if he needed to remind me of the different task hours. Everyone had them all memorized from the age of five. He pointed to my bowl again, so obediently I picked up my spoon and began to take big mouthfuls of the tasteless concoction. I chose to stay silent as I ate, only occasionally glancing up when Emazz would take a bite of the food as well. I knew mother wouldn't eat anything. She never seemed too anyway.
As I finished my dinner, making sure to not leave anything behind, I only had one thought in my mind as I stood up to clean my dishes.
Our family was broken, and I didn't think it could ever be pieced back together again.
