My Purpose

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. Every afternoon, he would let her spend a few minutes here to look down at the world she would never be a part of. She watched as guards patrolled the fort and counted the footprints they left in the ever-present dusting of snow. She came up with stories for each guard as they passed her view. One guard was on his way to the market so that he could cook dinner or lunch for the employees. Another guard was heading out to his car so that he could fix a broken tire that was preventing him from using his gasoline. One guard, who she really enjoyed seeing, was on his way to visit her so that he could stand near her. Every day these guards walked the same routes, yet in the fifteen years that she had spent in this tower, they never did anything else. She was born pure, without sores, and that meant it was her responsibility to fuel the summer flame so that what was left of humanity could be protected by its power.

Her caretaker walked back into the room and asked her if she had enjoyed her time at the window. She nodded yes, for she had enjoyed her time at the window. Had he asked if she wished to return to her chamber, she would have answered differently. She did not dislike her chamber. In fact, she appreciated everything he did for her; she was well taken care of. Her window time was the only time she was able to come up with her stories, and her stories were the most important thing in her life.

As he walked her back to her chamber, he informed her that a new maiden was born without sores earlier this day. She looked at him and smiled, as this was surely good news. Despite her smile, he seemed neutral after delivering the news. She assumed that this must not be good news, but was in fact, just news. She asked if the new maiden would come to live in the tower with them. He shook his head no and informed her that fair maidens such as they must be kept isolated to properly prepare them for the summer flame. She understood, for the fueling of the summer flame was her purpose.

Once back in her chamber, she took a seat in her leather chair nearest the shelves that contained her books. She looked around the room and observed that everything was in the exact same spot that it had been her whole life. Sometimes the guards out the window stepped slightly more to the right or left, making their snow tracks messy. Sometimes they moved a little faster or slower than they had the previous day. On days where she counted more footprints, she would place her hand on the window and feel that it was colder than usual. At the window, things changed. Here in her chamber, things stayed the same.

She grabbed her favorite book from the shelf and placed it on her lap.

“The Man Who Drove His Car”

“One day, long before the forever snow, a man got out of his bed in a suburb. There were trees and there were no cities. Children of the man were in the house, but they did not always do what the man asked them to, so they were not allowed to drive their cars that day nor use any gasoline. The man lived in a suburb, but he drove his car to the city. He lived in the suburb so that he could use gasoline everyday to go to the city where he needed to be instead, mostly.

While the man drove his car, he realized that he could be using more gasoline if he got a bigger car. He then became sad because he could only pay for the small car he had now. He remembered that if he worked in the city and always tried his best, he could get a bigger car that would use more gasoline. This made him happy.”

She put the book down for a moment and wondered who had written this story. She wished that her stories of the guards in the window could be as captivating as this. She had read every page of the book hundreds of times and could recite many of the chapters by memory. When the man in the book gets lunch at work and sits with a coworker and says that they are friends, but they really aren’t friends, she could hardly believe it. Whenever she asked her caretaker who had written these books, he told her that it did not matter, for her only responsibility was to fuel the summer flame. Whenever she asked him if she could ever write a book, he would always frown, and remind her that her only responsibility was to fuel the summer flame.

She put the book back on the shelf and walked over to the mural on the wall that depicted the summer flame and the harvesters who protected it. The green crest on their uniforms signified their responsibility to create food and warmth for the humans that were left. Small red bits of paint were used to show the sores that covered almost all of humanity, but they were much more unsightly in real life, as she could tell from her caretaker and the guards outside the window. In the center was the summer flame, inside of which were the dancing maidens. She knew that she would die when she became one with the summer flame, but that did not matter, for fueling the summer flame was her only responsibility. Despite knowing that this would happen her whole life, she felt uneasy about the prospect of late. Her fair body, lacking sores, would be the fuel that the summer flame needs, but surely, she could leave just one story behind before that happened.

When it was time to eat, her caretaker came in with a tray of soup for her. She got up from her chair and bowed to him as she always did, but before he left she pled that he leave her with parchment and a utensil. She reassured him that she knew her responsibility, and that if her time was growing closer, she was ready to fuel the summer flame. She pled with him that he let her write down just one story so that she could see it on her shelf before she joined the other maidens.

He looked at her and then over to her shelf. He seemed disappointed in himself more than he was with her. He walked over to the mural on the wall and asked her if she knew why the maidens were made to join each other in the summer flame. She shook her head no, for it was her responsibility to fuel the summer flame, not to understand it. He smiled and seemed proud at her answer. He told her that some people are meant to write stories, some people are meant to guard walls, some people are meant to make soup, and some people are meant to fuel the summer flame. He explained that purpose is the only thing a human needs to be happy and that she should be grateful for always having had one.

She frowned and reluctantly agreed. He walked over to her and struck her with the back of his hand. He explained that the books in her chamber were a gift from him to her. He could remove them at any time if she were to continue doubting her purpose.

After he left, she put her hand on her cheek which was still stinging from the blow he had delivered. Despite the pain, she felt excited. She looked down at where she was standing. She made a note of how her feet were positioned, what the carpet looked like underneath them, and what shadows had encompassed the objects surrounding her from the flickering candles lighting her chamber.

The next day, when it was time to go to the window, he showed up in her room and apologized for striking her the previous day. He told her that he hoped she had thought about her purpose and fully understood what it was. She assured him that she had.

She sat down at the window and looked out at the guards. She got to work immediately. This guard was walking to his car so that he could use gasoline in his car to go to the city. She paused for a moment. She thought about the moments after her caretaker had slapped her. This guard was walking, slowly, dragging his feet in the snow, not because he wanted to go use his car, but because he had to. The city where he worked was not the suburb where he lived. He didn’t live in the city because he didn’t want to. He didn’t like his life. As if a roaring flame had lit inside her, she became engrossed in her own story like never before. Her caretaker was right, a purpose is all a human wants, but what if it’s the wrong purpose?

She saw the guard she liked to look at. She started to create a story about him like she always did. He would stand very close to her so that she could also be close to him. She felt embarrassed to create a better story for some reason. She knew what she wanted to say and tried to force herself but felt her face getting hot and her palms getting sweaty. This feeling made her uncomfortable, but it also felt viscerally captivating. This guard was walking, lock step along the walls. She would appear in front of him and command him to stop. He would listen for she was his fair maiden. She would then order him to remove his uniform and approach her. Naked, he would step closer to her… Just then, her caretaker walked into the room and exclaimed loudly.

She had lost track of time with her stories and did not realize that she had been pressing her hand in between her legs. Her caretaker moved towards her quickly and looked out the window. He saw the guard that was inspiring her fantasy and grabbed her hand to pull her away from the window. He rushed her back to her chamber and sat her down quickly. He informed her that what she had done was impure, and that if she did not behave correctly she could jeopardize her entire existence. He frowned and asked her if she was still thinking about writing stories. She paused and then assured him that she only thought of her purpose, which was to fuel the summer flame. He told her that he was proud of her for realigning with her purpose, but as a punishment, she would be going without dinner this day. This shocked her, for this had never happened before. She had eaten dinner everyday for the past fifteen years.

That night, she did not fall asleep thinking of “The Man Who Drove His Car,” or “The Teacher Who Helped a Student.” Instead, she thought of her own stories. She couldn’t understand why, but she knew they were better. As she tried to form the stories in her mind, she felt the uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling of hunger. She pressed on her belly as hard as she could, but it did not stop the pain. She got up out of bed and began to pace her room. She felt the twine of her carpet in between her toes and the slight chill that came off of the stone walls. She placed a hand on one such wall and the other on her stomach. Despite the pain she was feeling, she smiled in the darkness of her privacy. She waited for her eyes to adjust and then took in her surroundings like she had after being slapped.

The next day when her caretaker brought her to the window he informed her that she would be watching something different today. She looked up at him confused as he stood next to her. He told her that he would be staying with her during her time at the window today. She didn’t mind the presence of him, for her stories were only in her mind anyway. As she excitedly looked out the window she did not see the guards walking their usual paths. Instead, she saw them lined up facing a wall.

Standing against that wall was the guard she liked to look at. The other guards raised their firearms and pointed them at the lone guard. After many loud noises and bright flashes, the guard fell to the ground limp and dead. She looked out the window with her entire heart and soul. She could feel her caretaker’s gaze on the back of her skull, so she knew her time was limited. She soaked in every single detail of the scene. She memorized the crimson pools that formed under the guard’s body and how the delicate way the snow began to dust his limp body encompassed the peace that came with death. She saw the green harvester crest covered in red blood. She studied the body language of the other guards and tried to understand what they might be feeling. Was this something they wanted to do like “The Man Who Drove His Car?” Or was this something else? As he walked her back to her room, he asked her if she had learned anything from what she saw in the window. She told him she had, for this was the truth.

Once alone in her room she began to think of the guard. She pressed her hand on her stomach and remembered the pain of her hunger. She pressed her hand to her face and remembered the pain of being struck. She tried to imagine the pain of being killed like her guard was earlier today. Her throat began to feel heavy, and her eyes welled up. She started to cry and dry heave imagining the displeasure of being struck so many times and experiencing such intense pain. She remembered the snow lightly covering his body and hoped that he felt at peace in that moment. His pain was gone, and hopefully, his purpose fulfilled. She looked through wet eyes at her books. She had loved these stories for so long that she could still recite every line, but now she looked at them with pure disgust.

The next day her caretaker came into her room and asked her if she was ok. She assured him that she was surer of her purpose than ever before. He smiled and escorted her to his room and sat her down at the window. The courtyard had been cleared as if nothing had even happened, and the guards once again walked their routes. Her caretaker left her today which caused her to let out a small sigh of relief. As she got comfortable in her chair and began to prepare herself to create more stories, she noticed faint reflections in the window itself. She stood up and turned away from the window. She looked in at her caretaker’s room. It was so painfully plain. Her red stitched carpet was a stark contrast with the wooden boards that floored his room. His bed was simple and had a single blanket and pillow, neither of which had any color or pattern. There was a single candle that burned on his table, next to a few sheets of paper and a pen.

She rushed over to the table immediately. She picked up the pen and tried her best to write something down. Her handwriting was sloppy and unrefined, but if she focused and went slow, she could replicate the words and letters that she knew by heart from her books. She turned back towards the window and then towards the door. She felt panicked at the thought of her caretaker returning. His room was so plain that he would surely notice his pen and paper missing. Maybe, she thought, she could write a little each time she entered the room and hide the paper before leaving.

With a newfound excitement, she began to write at the table.

“My Purpose” she wrote. She paused after writing the title and looked back out the window. She continued to write, “by Pyre, a fair maiden who was used to fuel the Summer Flame”

Pyre heard the familiar sound of her caretaker returning to the room. She quickly folded up the piece of paper she was writing on and hid it in her waistband before rushing back to the chair by the window. Her caretaker walked her back towards her room, but as they approached it, they walked past. Pyre could have sworn she heard another person in her room with a crying baby.

She became uneasy as they continued to walk. Eventually Pyre’s caretaker asked her if she knew what today was. She looked at her waistband and then back at him. She told him that today was the day she was going to fulfill her purpose. He smiled and told her that she was correct. Today she would join the other maidens in the summer flame so that all of humanity could be protected by the power of the flame and thus, the harvesters. Pyre stopped walking. She felt a pit in her stomach, and finally understood why she needed to be fed to the summer flame. She looked up at her caretaker, the only person she had ever conversed with for fifteen years, and asked him what his name was. He said that she need not worry about such things, for today she would be fulfilling her purpose. She frowned and told him that her name was Pyre. She noted the shock on his face before she continued to walk.

She looked at the door that was in front of her. Her caretaker looked at her with a sadness in his eyes that she had never seen before. Despite hie eyes, he explained to her that this was a happy occasion, and that this door would lead her outside, for the first and only time in her life. From there, she would walk forward ten paces and stand on the platform next to the leaders of the harvesters. They would then take things from there and guide her to the flame.

He knelt so that he was at eye level with her. He told her that he loved her and that he was proud of her for fulfilling her purpose. Pyre paused a moment and then asked if he really loved her. He assured her that he did. She said that she believed him and took the paper out from her waistband. She unfolded it and showed it to him. She told him that this was her true purpose. She said that she would walk outside, and that she would take ten paces. She said she would stand next to the harvester and when the time came, she would join the other maidens in the summer flame. She said that she would die so that the harvesters could continue to do whatever it is that they do. She then told him, that fueling the summer flame was not however, her purpose.

Pyre placed the paper in her caretaker’s hand and once again asked what his name was. The man paused. He looked down at the paper. “My Purpose, by Pyre, a fair maiden who was used to fuel the Summer Flame”

You shouldn’t worry about such things, he said between choked back tears, for today you need to fulfill your purpose, and you only have a little time to spare. He then pulled out a pen from his pocket and handed it to her. She smiled and took the pen. Pyre began to write as fast as she could, because for the first and only time in her life, she had a purpose.