My feet are bare against the earth covered by a thick layer of fallen leaves that would never decay. I am surrounded by towering white trees with brown knobs all over their skin. The closest one to me has an arrow wedged into the bark. I pull it out, bark falling away with sap beginning to trickle out slowly like blood, white blood. The gash is replaced with another, the arrowhead more deeply buried into the bark, disappearing in gushing white blood. I look up to see a figure of a man with an arrow more accurately aimed, one that would catch my throat. I suppose when I was smaller I took off running, sprinting through a forest rumored to never end, but now that I am taller, I simply wake up. I yawn, rubbing my head against the hardwood floor, wishing it was rougher, colder, darker. This spot under the bed was the closest I had the lingering memories of my childhood.
I thought of the man in the next room, cradling my head during one of my, what he called 'blue-eyed fits', telling me about some boring study of prisoners being unable to sleep in the suffocating mass of fluff called a bed. I sighed, rolling over to face the ceiling, stumbling over my own two feet. I walked out to the roof, where the moon was nothing but a sliver free from color and the wind was an icy bite into my face. I curled up into a corner of giant curving vents, falling asleep the image of the blue moon from where I was born.
I woke up to footsteps tumbling down the hallway, through the door, and into silence. I groaned, too lazy, to tired, to chase after him. I waited before slowly making contact with the icy floor who was getting no mercy from the stale air. I shivered, hopping around the hallways lined up with bnaged up, locked up, metal numbered doors. Eventually I found Milo in a corner of the rooftop, right under what was left of the moon. I left him there tiptoeing back to my own metal number planning my morning. I knew I would wake up before him.
I never had a chance to feel sleepy, to wake up and pretend I had never stirred from my curled up position. I had the air knocked out of me, my chest compacted by a man twice my weight so I could barely breathe, my stomach rising in my throat, making it even harder. I panicked, my feet clear off the ground, feeling blinded before remember optical devices and their uses. I was carried to the very edge of the roof, my toes just off the brick, letting me in into the early shuffles of pans on grease and dust on feet. Jagger swayed slightly, his head to my neck, eyes gazing at the same sights I so desperately tried to avoid.
"It's not like you to be up so high." He mused. "All you want to see is what you can touch but don't you ever wonder what it would be like to join the people down there?" He let go of me, nudging me towards the big empty block of air as he stepped away from the ledge, only to have me teeter, luckily stumbling into his arms instead of the that of the concrete, but once he had his grip on me, I wondered if the concrete would be as bad as I thought. For a moment, I saw the citizens of the ground below, jamming into busses, into borrowed cars, into crowded sidewalks. We stood there in silence before Jagger started walking back to the dim hallways, half dragging me to the cold wood floors.