Black Out

I run my fingertips over the scratches carefully placed on the steel box by Father.  Weird squiqqles, called cursive, from our home. Home. I don’t even remember home. All I know is that it is long gone. Destroyed. From what father said it was beautiful. 

Father was a teacher. Father teaches me now, in secret. If the masters found out they would be very angry. They want us to be like them. Father disagrees. Father teaches me everything he taught children at home. Home. 

Today Father says its our last lesson. I look at him confused. 

“But we have forever together. You can teach me everything you know,” I said. 

“Back home. Home,” Father looks off wistfully, “we had this tradition called a graduation. Where when a child reached the end of their schooling they celebrated all that they have learned by walking across a stage and they got this piece of paper called a diploma. Then they had a party with their families where they got presents.” A smile spread widely across my face when Father mentions presents. I know this concept. Father explained presents to me when he taught me about Christmas. Home sounds much better than this place. Christmas, beaches, school, weddings, graduations?! I wish I could be home. Home. 

“Since today is your graduation,” Father reaches behind him for a mystery item, “I decided I would honor tradition. I can barely contain my excitement. Father shows me my surprise. I’m no longer excited. Its the burning rod. 

“I’m sorry Father I’ll be good! I didn’t mean to! I dont want to graduate! I dont wanna…” I cry out for him to put it away. I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought graduation was a good thing. 

“Shhh. Rosie. You’re not in trouble. This is your present. Back home. Home,” Father came closer to me attempting to calm me, “many young people recieved these things. Tattoos. Now, they usually use a needle and ink, but we don’t have access to that here. The purpose of tattoos are so you can remember something very important.” I nod along, not understanding where he is going with this. Is Father going to burn the alphabet or the story of Christmas into my skin? I shudder at the thought. 

“You know you already have a tattoo?” I look at him with the same puzzled expression that has been stuck on my face throughout the entire lesson, “Look at your shoulder. Right under your sleeve.” I peeked under the rough, itchy canvas that the masters call clothing. There it was. A flower. I think its called a Daisy. 

“Mother.”

“Yes, that stands for Mother. Do you remember Mother?” Father asked. It was a dumb question. Of course I dont remember Mother. I was too young to remember. Well, except for one thing. 

“I remember I killed her.”

The image of Father disappeared and was replaced by the cold, harsh metal guards along with someone who looked more human. I knew it was fake. We were the last. I reached toward the humanish thing. Cold. 

Knew it. 

The metal humans were not expecting me to establish contact with them. They shrank away from me. Im foreign. They’re scared. I glanced around the room at the thousands of soldiers standing like trees. Trees. Home. Wait no, trees flow outwards with and branches and leaves. At least thats what Father said. They arent trees. They’re pipes! That’s the word! Stiff. Made of metal. Only good for two things; serving as part of a unit to make something run or killing when they end up in the wrong hands. 

Please be the good pipes. I like the good pipes. 

Reviews

[3X3MPLER]

this is great and it got me glued, have you written more of it