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Take Flight

Chapter 1

By Sarah KleinPublished 2 years ago 19 min read
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Chapter 1

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They came back in the storm. That wretched, horrible fucking storm. I can still remember it; holding my mother’s hand as rain pelted my hood. The water streaming down my raincoat collecting in my boots. We were walking home after bible study but stopped as lighting clashed in the clouds. I watched in the distance, into the city where the worst of the clouds gathered. Lighting struck again and I gripped my mother’s hand tighter as I saw a shadow in the clouds. That thunder afterwards seemed to shake the world. It made me tremble. My small body shaking as another bolt of lighting struck a towering building. My eyes widened as light reflected off the fangs of an enormous mouth that the lighting came from.

My mother gasped, grabbing me as she threw her umbrella aside. It was my favorite. I remember that but I can’t remember what was on it. All I could remember were my little fingers gripping my mother so tight my nails felt like they would break. I remember hearing her terrified panting in my ear as the rain grew heavier, quickly drenching us as she carried me home running. Running the entire time. I didn’t know why she was running. I could still see the clouds in the city over her shoulder. I tried not to breath every time lighting flashed because I wanted to see it. To see if the mouth was still there.

As my mother crested the last hill to home another bolt flashed brighter than the others. I held my breath in fear as the light showed the mouth again, and eyes, and what looked like claws from its head, and a long neck, and giant limbs with gleaming claws, and wings. My young mind at the time didn’t know what it was but it terrified something deep within me. The creature was spitting out even more lighting now, it was huge as it clawed at buildings. When my mother turned the corner down to our street I finally spoke.

“There’s another Mama.”

The rest of my memories of that night are…scrambled. I can remember my mother franticly unlocking the door as the rain turned into a roar. Or maybe it was the creature, I can’t remember. The siren sounds I knew from my cartoons were sounding all too close as we finally got inside. I keep hearing it in my dreams. I remember clenching the drapes as I stared transfixed to the city view. More of those creatures came out of the clouds. They were climbing all over the towers with the pretty lights, but the lights would quickly go out as they scrapped holes into the buildings with their claws. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop staring. I couldn’t turn away. It wasn’t until my mother, or maybe my father I-I don’t know, pulled my hand off the drape and dragged me away from the window.

I just remember being cold. Wishing I could take my socks off because they were soaked from the rain and always being held. One parent would hold me then pass me off to the other. It was like they were scared to put me down. Like if they did those…creatures, would somehow make off with me. Who knows, maybe it would’ve? At some point we were in the cellar and they were arguing. I think it was about food. I didn’t want to hear them, so I covered my ears and tried to just be a ball. But I could still hear that damn storm, blowing and raining and raging outside. A couple of times the floors above us shook a little and whenever it did, they would squeeze me tighter, whoever was holding me.

I think I fell asleep. Next thing I know I’m wrapped up in my favorite ‘Mighty Mike’ blanket and my feet no longer wore those soaked socks. I could hear my parents talking but in whispers, like they didn’t want to wake me. I don’t really remember everything they said but I can remember one bit, clear as day. Like it happened yesterday and not 23 years ago.

“Dragons?!” My mother’s voice was terrified. I never heard her so scared before, “You can’t be serious Felix, dragons?!”

My father’s voice sounded just as terrified but stronger, “Shh. Keep your voice down.” He paused and something scuffled, “Look,” I barely heard the tap of his fingertips, “here, someone posted the storm on MySpace. It’s a dragon Stella.”

The whimper I heard from my mother broke my heart, “But dragons aren’t real!”

Thunder rocked the house above us. I cried out without meaning to and my mother grabbed me into her arms right away. She soothed me until I was about to fall asleep again when my father whispered, “They are now.”

I stopped talking. The rock ceiling illuminated by the artificial lamp was just suddenly fascinating. Laying on the bench I tried to relax my hands as I could feel my knuckles knotting over my stomach. The air vent in the lower corner of my eye kept catching my attention. It stuck out like a sore thumb against the natural beauty of the rocks. Weirdly it pissed me off. Dr. Mitchell, an elderly lady I would sometimes see around the colony, sat in her padded chair across from me her pencil softly scribbling on her clipboard.

“What happened next?” she gently prompted.

Sitting up in exasperation I scratched my head. I felt the small guilt I always felt every time I’m reminded that my straw-like blonde hair was the last gift from my father that I’ve neglected. My mother gave me her freckles so I couldn’t mess those up but while I can’t remember the touch of my father’s own blonde hair, I can remember Mom always combing her fingers through it. It must’ve been soft for her to be touching it so much and to feel the dry coarseness of my own brought shame and guilt to me. But it is pretty hard, caring and taking care of your looks when you work in the geothermal plant with all that heat and stuffy air so it’s not entirely my own fault, right?

Pushing that train of though out of my head I stared at my fingertips, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Dr. Mitchell crossed her legs the other way, “What do you remember next?”

My hands clasped tight as the fright and fear crawled up my back, “The fear. We stayed in that cellar, I don’t know how long, but eventually we had to leave, we ran out of food. I remember them arguing. I think my father wanted us to stay while he went but I know my mother would never want us to separate, no matter what.”

The roughness of my hands scratched my face. I didn’t want to continue but I had to say the words, “I remember traveling. For years we traveled. At first hearing the fight as military after military tried to kill the dragons. After a couple of years of not really settling down, the fighting stopped. We would ‘camp’ as my parents tried to make an adventure out of it, never mind the terror of seeing a shadow eclipse the sun or moon. We tried to find a new home, a new place but nothing fit. That’s how we came to that camp up north in Winnipeg.” Closing my eyes, I can still bring up that image of the camp. The smells of crops and flowers and flowing water. Seeing the people thriving in small huts rudely built of wood.

“It was a haven, or so we thought. This was before people realized that large exposed groups brought the dragons. We were there, almost 3 years when one attacked us.” I scratched my cheek, I could almost feel the heat of that fire burning my face again, “Dad told us to run, hide. The camp never really had any kind of escape plan because well, we wanted to ignore the new world I guess. Mom and I ran into the woods. I saw a huge tree knocked down and we dug enough underneath it to crawl under and hid.”

I felt the tears burning in my eyes but held back, “I don’t remember how long we waited. It was dark, no moon that night. Mom, Mom finally said we should go back for Dad. And we did. But we never found him. We never found anyone from the camp. Just blood and pieces of clothes.”

Dr. Mitchell could see the pain in my eyes, I could tell. She shifted in her chair before scribbling on her paper, “Is that when you got that scar?”

My jaw clenched. The scar ran from my chin, across my left cheek and the lower half of my molten ear. A black streak ran down the center of it with fine black cracks spreading from it. The skin was still stiff as wood even after all these years. Giving it a freshly charred look. You don’t come back from dragon fire, not really. Not entirely. The people around the colony started calling me Char when my mother and I first came here. I hated it. “No that’s…that’s another story.”

She gently nodded her head, “What happened next?”

My shoulders were stiff as I worked them, clearing my throat, “Next Mom realized she was pregnant. We gathered what we could from the carnage and just left. Traveling south away from the camp, away from dragons we hoped. As we walked, she slowly realized she was carrying Felix Jr., my little brother. She was almost ready to pop when a caravan from here found us. I guess they took pity on us because even though they had just left, they immediately turned around and brought us here.” A smile was actually on my lips as I waved to my right, “The-the clinic was barely open. I think they just had band-aids, and in waddles my mother about to ask for a doctor when her water breaks right there at the door.”

I had to chuckle as the memories of that night warmed me. The ladies of the clinic panicked and grabbed my mother, almost dragging her inside as she hadn’t even realized yet that she just went into labor. I held her hand when she finally gave birth to Felix Jr. Smiling, I stared at the same hand she held, “I was fourteen when he was born. She labored long, hard hours until he finally just popped out. I watched him being brought into this world. This weird, unstable world. I remember watching him as she held him, still covered in gunk and all I could think was ‘how dare we do this to him’.” Filling my lungs with the warm air of the room the memory of my mother floated in my head, “Mom must have seen my look because she grabbed my hand and smiled. She said it would all be ok. That the world would change again, and he will thrive.”

“You don’t believe your mother’s words?”

Her eyes didn’t flinch when I held a hard stare in mine, “That’s kinda hard to do when we still live here. I mean,” I waved wildly around me, “we used to be the States of America. Now we’re what? The Correlations of North America? We’re sporadic colonies hidden thousands of feet below ground hoping and praying they won’t hear us, see us, smell us. We can’t fight those things. Our bullets and knives and arrows just bounce off their diamond scales. What-just what are we even doing? Mom died in the plague of ‘010. It almost killed him seeing her like that. He held her hand as she passed. Fucking ten years old,” I stood and started pacing, “Ten years old and where was I? I had to work because if I didn’t put in the hours, we wouldn’t get enough food vouchers but that’s fucking crap!”

She patiently watched me pace but I didn’t say anything else. The pencil scribbled more when she leaned forward, “Rachel may I ask, why did you come here today? I see from your file that you and your family have been members of this colony for the past 15 years, but you’ve never approached counseling before. Why now?”

I didn’t want to say the words but the suffocation I felt trying to hold them back felt even worse. The bench moan as I sat, sighing into my hands when I finally said the words I couldn’t say before, “I’m tired of living. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I-…I can’t remember the sun. I can’t remember grass. I remember our travels, I can remember the woods, the land, the winds and shit but I…,” I tried to find the words, to get them out, “I know the memories are there, but I can’t get them. I know I know what the sun is but I…I can’t remember what it felt like. What it looked like. There are…holes in my memories. Just random bits blacked out with a sharpie and I-I…I feel like I’m losing my mind. And I’m so tired of feeling that I’m so tired of living in this damn hole, I’m tired,” the tears fell freely. I no longer had the energy to hold them back as the words killed me, “of being a mother to my brother. I feel like the weight of the ground above us is sitting my chest and I can’t breathe. No matter how much I try I can’t catch my breath and I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of not being able to breathe.”

I openly cried, hoping, praying she could feel, could understand at least part of what I’m trying to say. She set her clipboard on the little table between us and held out a handkerchief from her pocket. My fingers were numb as I took it. As if the words were a great weight, I hand lifted off my chest. I guess in a way, it was.

She waited till I finish cleaning my face, “What you are feeling, is normal for our circumstances. We are not meant to dwell underground. You are right about that. And it’s ok to have holes in your memories. You were still a young girl when the world as you knew it ended. You grew up in many different harsh environments and often our minds will do things that do not make sense to us in order to shield ourselves.”

I wasn’t sure if I should take solace in what she was saying. I felt so numb from my confessions I couldn’t even tell if it was working. I just sat there staring into my hands as that weight came back pressing onto my shoulders. A soft chime sounded from her desk behind her signaling the end of our session. She went to her desk and pulled something out of a drawer.

“Here”, she held out a small notebook to me. I dumbly took it and stared at her, “I want you to write in that. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking. Write it down.”

It felt like a rock in my hands, “You want me…to keep a diary?”

“You need a friend. You need to talk. Writing in a book can do both.”

It sounded stupid, “Right. Yea well…sure. I’ll try but-…but what is…this? What’s…wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong with you Rachel,” she picked up the clipboard and sat back in her chair, “as for labeling it as ‘something’, that’s not really what we do especially after just one session. I will tell you that again, what you are going through is normal and there are many people even in this colony who are going through similar things. And I strongly encourage you to please come again, have another session with me and as we keep these sessions up and keep talking, you may just get your answers.”

I held a death grip on the little book as she led me to the door, “I may?”

She held the door open, “I can’t promise answers, to any of my clients. I simply don’t have them, but if you choose to continue down this path of self-healing and ask that I come with you, I do promise that I will do everything I can to help you find what you seek.”

“Right,” I had to duck slightly to get through the door and held up the book as I left, “thanks for this, I guess. I’ll uh, I’ll call on you again, maybe.”

She smiled in encouragement and clicked the door shut. Thoughts flooded my head as I took the short flight of stairs to the floor of the massive chamber that was the south wing of the colony. Many shops and businesses built their stores here, flooding the rock walls with all kinds of various shadows and lights. Tiny little discs covered the ceiling and projected a faux sky that was supposedly in tune with the real sky outside. Gravel crunched under my heavy boots as I walked across the ‘courtyard’ to the hallway. Our ‘sky’ showed the stars, and I could only hope that Felix actually came home from school. The hallway was artificially widened when the colony expanded and as you walk down the extra wide bridge you can hear the natural stream underneath as the waters ran. I used to come to this bridge after they finished it. The sounds of the waters soothed me somehow.

The mile walk through the hallway was over in a blink. I didn’t have time to stop and admire the sheer size of this chamber. It was almost the size of a small city with over half the buildings as living spaces. The stream turned before it reached this chamber so there was no natural running water to clean the air. It always stuffed my nose and smelled fowl, like when a hide doesn’t turn properly in the tannery. I ignored the stench and hurried home. Our apartment was in one of the older buildings that had no working elevator. My boots stomped loudly on the stairs and after many years of climbing five slights of stairs, many times after a long shifts, my legs still screamed at me. I guess some things, you just don’t get used to.

Reaching our home, I unlocked the door to a darken apartment. Flipping the lights on I sighed. Felix didn’t come home, again. But as I threw the book on the counter a door opened from the hallway, and he came around the corner disheveled.

He stopped at the fridge looking me up and down, “So…? How’d it go?”

He looked so much like our father it wasn’t fair. He had the same blonde hair and lean looks of Dad. When Mom would show us some photos that survived, he was the spitting image of Dad as a teen. But in none of the photos did I see anybody that resembled me. No one in our family had my tall height or stocky build. Just my hair from Dad and my freckles from Mom. It made me feel even more suffocating.

Grabbing a glass from the cabinet I shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t feel any different but I also kinda do?”

I popped the cork off the whiskey bottle and poured a good bit into the glass. I chugged it in one gulp and the burn made me remember the burn that gave me my scar. That brought another pour and chug of the strong whiskey.

Felix stopped my hand from pouring another, “Rachel, you promised.”

My fingers flexed as I tried to fight the torrent inside of me. I let out a sharp breath of air from my nose and I half expected the see smoke bellowing out like the dragons do. Scientists say it’s a territorial sign when they do that. I think they’re just pissy in general.

Recorking the bottle I slid it to him, “Sorry, you’re right. I just…I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.”

He put the bottle back in the cabinet, “Maybe you should sleep on it. You do have a shift in the morning.”

I took another deep breath and leaned on the counter. Staring at him again I was washed over with memories of our parents. I gently pulled him into a hug, slightly surprised he didn’t object, and whispered, “Thank you, for coming home.”

“Yeah well, you’re my sister”, he said as he awkwardly patted my back.

What was left of that night actually went peacefully. The next few days were unassuming as I kept running thoughts of the session through my head and wondered if I should go again. Little over a week later Brad from the plant convinced me to get a drink with him after work. We went to the original squatter where it was really more just a bar facing the ‘street’ that gave out piss for beer. I was watching a group of little kids playing in the small playground down the block when Brad came back with a pitcher and handed me a mug already filled.

“Why do people do that?”, I waved at the kids, “Why would anyone choose to bring kids into this world?”

Brad matched my height, so he stayed eyelevel when he sat across form me. The brown of his hair matched perfectly with the rock walls around us. He slurped a big gulp from his mug before he answered, “Ah let them be Char.”

I gave him an evil look which made him clear his throat and corrected himself, “Rachel I mean. If people want a bit of happiness with a family, let them.”

“I just don’t get it.” Scratching my head I leaned forward, “Why would you be so totally unfair to a child that would never choose to be in this world?”

“How do you know they wouldn’t choose?”, he asked so innocently.

My scuff was almost a snort, “Would you choose to come here?”

“Yes.”

He quick answer threw me back, “Wha-?”

“Rachel Broom?”

I snapped my head around, finding a hard man standing next to me, “Yea…? Who wants to know?”

He must not have heard the veiled hostility in my voice when he answered, “I’m Captain Rick Owen. Your brother said I could find you here.” Captain Owen cleared his dry throat and handed me an envelope he dug out of his pockets, “You’ve been drafted.”

“Drafted?”, I gently took the envelope from him in disbelief. Brad was silent, his face unmoving as I quickly scanned the letter seeing the truth of the captain’s words on paper. I lost the air in my lungs from the weight I felt pressing on me, “You’re right. I’m drafted.”

“No.”, Brad snatched the paper from my hands. His face paled as he read the words himself.

I looked up at the dark wrinkled face of the captain, “I don’t understand. Why me?”

He folded his hands behind his back clearing his throat. He looked uncomfortable to share such news in public but respectfully answered my question, “We lack hands for a caravan run in two days’ time. We need more. Someone with,” he waved a sympathetic hand to my face, “experience.”

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Sarah Klein

I just want to write for the sake of writing. Please give me your feedback. Enjoy.

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