‘Far off in the distance is an island of gold,
Shining so brilliantly, it burns so bold.
You spin around, you sing songs,
Of this island where you belong.
Far off in the distance is an island of gold.

Warming you slowly, the sun glows bright.
Small creatures are languid under the light.
Can you feel the wind rippling through your mind?
Softly caressing, your thoughts come alive,
Right here, right now on this island of gold.

Can you hear the birds as they call to the sea?
Skim fingers over waters so deep.
You can touch the clouds in the sky,
Floating up, flying high
Forever leaving your island of gold.

It’s cold, so cold, where you are now,
The heavens are dark and the sky’s coming down.
The warmth is gone; you’re alone,
In your heart there is a hole.
You have sold your soul to that island of gold.

Far off in the distance is an island of gold,
Shining so brilliantly, it burns so bold.
You spin around, you sing songs,
Of this island where you belong.
Far off in the distance is an island of gold.’
The last, delicate note lingered in the air for a moment before being snuffed out by the worshiping applause. The ringing in her ears was deafening. It took conscious effort for her to keep that trade-mark serene smile on her face. It had begun to ache within a few minutes of her first performance. Now she felt as though her face was going to fall off. Her eyes stung from the being subjected to the bright lights bearing down on her.
There.
She caught sight of the signal and gave in inaudible sigh of relief. Smile not slipping a bit, she curtseyed gracefully to the adoring crowd before fazing away. Now, alone in the confines of her room, she threw herself onto the emperor-sized bed, grumbling about ‘stupidly uncomfortable costumes’ that she was forced to wear. There had been too many fainting-from-lack-of-oxygen incidents to be healthy. Rolling over onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, reunited with her best friends, Spot One and Spot Two. There had been many inventive names over the years but Greg and Barry where the ones that stuck – old-fashioned names for a seriously backwards room. Hoping that sleep would be a good enough excuse to avoid Her, she shut her eyes tight and left her mind wonder off to its own island of gold.
She doesn’t have a name; no one ever thought she needed one. She just calls her ‘my little bird’. And that’s really all she is – a perfect little song-bird, trapped in a gilded cage and placed on a pedestal as an object to be admired by curious ears and wandering eyes. She sang every day in The Citadel and drew in crowds of the rich and famous. She had been bred to be the perfect song-bird, a swirling blend of glorious genes, song and beauty wrapped in a pretty little box filled with 46 chromosomes and bound together in a bow of carefully manipulated DNA. She had always been Their greatest achievement.
She had never met her parents (her gene-donors) but They told her that they had been famous in their time, magnificent singers and beautiful too. Nonetheless, They all say that they didn’t have a candle on her. She had been sold to Mrs Masilda just a few summers old. Mrs Masilda was the owner of The Citadel and the richest person in the country with far more influence than any of the withering, dithering politicians hiding in their ramshackle building down in the South, huddled on the ever-changing banks of the River Thames.
You might think that being the prized possession of the richest person in the West would give one just a few perks. God, she wished. Because that’s all she was – a possession. A pretty little pet that sang sweet songs when prodded with a golden stick tipped in honey. Mrs Masilda loved nothing but treasure and hoarded the stuff. She wanted to show off Her wealth, shove it into the faces of everyone worth Her time, and Her little songbird was just a trump card. She had always had the coldest eyes. And sometimes, She could be scary too. Really scary.
She had seen Her hurt the other pets. Sometimes, She slapped them when they sang notes wrong or slipped when they were dancing, leaving harsh red strips over smooth, white skin. Other times, She would just sigh and stare at them, and they would all know that it was all over. Those times were sad but everyone would be quietly relieved it wasn’t them. She had never slipped up before so naturally was The Owner's favourite. She didn’t know whether the others were jealous of her. She had the nicest room in the whole Citadel and She was always nice to her but in a strange, twisted way, she had earned these benefits. Every night, she drew the eyes of thousands with her unique appearance and claiming the devotion of millions more with her soft, lingering voice.
And the room was her prison. A beautiful, luxurious prison containing everything she could ever want. She recalled having once mentioned the fact that she enjoyed the colours of strawberries and after her next performance, she had returned to find her room carpeted with thousands of waxy, perfect strawberries, each radiant in their rich redness. So despite all Her riches, she had never had a taste of freedom. From her birth as an experiment, to her childhood as a commodity and finally now, where she was entertainment for the bored.
She knew nothing of the outside world. No love. Never compassion. Yet she was taken down into the grand halls every night to sing about a foreign land she didn’t know, sounds she had never heard, sights she couldn’t even dream of. Her music stuck deep and stayed there, stirring emotions inside her listeners. The rich timbre of her voice was simple yet infinitely complex, each person interpreted it differently. It was all-encompassing. It meant anything and everything to her audience but to her, it was empty. Her songs meant nothing. She couldn’t feel. She couldn’t understand why they were so enamoured with a voice that didn’t exist. A person that didn’t exist. Often, she would curse her voice. She told herself that she hated the scientists that gave her life – gave her this voice. Because it was her beautiful voice that trapped her in that gilded cage.
Freedom.
Whenever she stood by the bay windows, staring at the image through the glass, she imagined herself outside those four walls. She yearned to feel the slashing rain on her face, wind whipping her long, red locks, the sun burning and blistering alabaster skin. She had cried when one of the other singers told her that the image on the glass was just a projection. She had cried for days. Silently. And alone. Always alone in her sprawling complex at the summit of The Citadel, snuggled in Her arms.
A soft snick woke her. Shaking her head, she blinked groggily, staring out in the vague direction of the noise. A boy stood there. He shifted nervously.
“I’m so sorry! I thought you were downstairs.” His voice was soft and nonintrusive. Dark strands of curly hair fell over his tanned face. She could see his fingers twitching – a nervous tick.
“Raise your head when talking to me please. I prefer to make eye contact with my conversation partners,” she commanded haughtily. Might as well keep up impressions. She raised an internal eyebrow when he didn’t move.
“Excuse me,” she snipped, rising to her feet, hands on hips. Oh God, she was so hip it burned. “I believe you’re my servant and therefore should answer to my orders.”
The only reply was a slight fidget of slipper-clad feet. Servants had to be silent so heeled boots would not do. Of course. They stood for a while in silence. Neither budged in this battle of wills. Finally, he murmured,
“I’m only here to clean and you’re not supposed to be here when I do.”
“Well then what on earth are you still doing here then? Leave!” She was having fun teasing him. She hadn’t talked to a real person in ages.
“I…” he stuttered. His fingers danced over the chip marker clutched like a lifeline in his clammy hands.
“I didn’t know I was that intimidating.” She smirked. When the chance comes, grab it. It had been far too long since she’d had this much fun. It was strange. Just a few lines of teasing words aimed at a geeky looking boy would make her far happier than the adoring adulations of thousands ever could.
“Give me a little something to go on here.” The temptation to lean forwards and poke him in the middle of his gormless forehead was overwhelming. “You might as well apologise for coming at the wrong time and interrupting me during my beauty sleep.” Her tone was light and jokey but he suddenly flinched. He wouldn’t take her seriously. Could he?
“I haven’t got it wrong,” he eventually blurted out, cheeks burning red, face still hidden by crazy bangs.
“Really?” She honestly was curious. Perhaps he was just embarrassed after walking in on a girl sleeping. She took a moment to thank her past self for being too lazy to undress. Now, that would have been hard to gloss over.
“Yes, yes, yes, of course. I come every day at this time!” he defended, voice slowly getting stronger as he grew more agitated.
“Really, really, really, really?” she mocked. “I must sleep really deeply then.”
“You’re meant to be performing right now,” he choked out, slapping a hand over his mouth in shock as soon as the words slipped out.
“What?” She couldn’t move. Terrible scenarios ran through her mind. This had never happened before. Mrs Masilda was going to skin her alive. Why? Why had it happened? Why had it happened to her?
Why?
Why?
Why?
“You’re joking. Please tell me you’re just kidding with me. Please. Oh god above, please,” she begged, her hands had somehow found their way to his shoulders. They were trembling like crazy. When she was about to break down, he looked up at her. And suddenly she was surrounded in warmth.
Rich.
Beautiful.
Whirling.
Blue.
“You have pretty eyes.”
He stared blankly at her, blue eyes burning like twinkling stars. The corner of his mouth twitched. Bastard. He was laughing at her! She was about to leave him in the blistering trail of her destruction when he managed to get in before her. Damn him, stupid servant.
“You think so?”
His question was so honestly curious that she reigned in her tongue. Just a little. He still had to pay for daring to even think about laughing at her.
“They’re a little too pretty for a guy’s eyes don’t you think – a sort of crazy sapphire,” she observed, leaning in closer enough to see deeper into that burnished blue.
A gasp.
A cry of outrage.
Mrs Masilda stood in the doorway. Her ridged curls were piled up in a twisted topknot, opulent viridian fabric draped over Her flabby frame in rich folds; face powdered pale and body drenched in tonnes of golden jewellery, every piece glittering with light-splitting diamonds. She was dressed to be the perfect host. Her every pore screamed filthy rich, every bobby pin positioned to be in the height of fashion. She looked like a deranged, faux-Grecian, ghostly, revenge-lady. Now, our little song-bird would have laughed if Her face wasn’t twisted into such a terrifying expression.
At some point she had grabbed him and dragged them both back onto the bed. Maybe it had happened when she was looking at his pretty blues. Well, it didn’t make much of a difference when or how it happened. After all, the action had left them in a rather compromising position.
Just a little.
The two of them on a bed. Normal. Explainable. On a good day. When She wasn’t in a horrible mood after her favourite bird had managed to fall asleep on Her. But it got worse.
A lot worse.
They were very close. Very close. She could see each strand of his dark eyelashes. Some of them were stuck together with a thin film of wax. If she focused, she could just about make out the tiny flecks of green in his eyes and the tiny red veins crawling through the creamy white, slowly working their corrosive way to the ocean pools. It was all very interesting. She hadn’t seen another person’s eyes this close before.
But they were still too close. The distance between a dirty servant and Her prized singer was far too small for Mrs Masilda’s mind to fathom. Fireworks were guaranteed. Painful fireworks they were to be as well. Somehow she managed to convince Her that she was to blame for The Incident, leading to many cold hours of complete solitude in her tower. The yelling had shaken The Citadel to its foundations. She knew she had been the topic of gossip for many days after The Incident. Why she had saved that poor pauper was beyond her. It would have been easy to lay the blame on his delirious soul, tell Her that he had been taking advantage of her. He might have died. And for some reason, she hadn’t wanted that. Instinctively, she had protected him at the cost of her own comfort. It had been surprisingly easy to lie to Her; his face had been so confused and befuddled – the perfect picture of a deceived teen.
She did not enjoy the isolation. Her performances had at least given a bit of pizazz to her monotonous life. But she didn’t regret anything. It was strange. But she had felt trilled in that moment, her steely eyes meeting Her cold glare. It had been electrifying, that spark of rebellion. Must have be the fact that she had never really had a chance to be an unruly teenager. Lying on her sinfully comfortable bed, his eyes wouldn’t leave her mind. She would call herself a ‘love-struck teenage fangirl’ but she really didn’t like the rest of him. If she could remove his eyes and just have those, she would be happier. Was that weird? Maybe a little…
She was given the silent treatment by every soul in the world for a painfully dragging three months. By the last week, she had started to count the strands of hair on her head. She’d gotten to 89,999 before giving up and moving on to body hair instead. Apparently, it was at this point that Mrs Masilda decided that she had been driven sufficiently insane and released her. The first time she stood back on that stage, singing to the blur of people before her, she had never felt so alive, excluding that one time, during The Incident. It was always the exception. And she hated him. She hated him.
Imagine her surprise when, after fazing up to her room, she finds herself staring back into those blue eyes that had so definitely not haunted her since that night. This is brilliant, she told herself. Finally, someone to take her anger out on.
“I’m so sorry! You ended early again.” He was apologising but she swore she could see that smirk threatening to slip out.
Damn him and his stupid, magnetic blue eyes!
“Just get out,” she snapped. “I want some time to myself before I have to go back downstairs to perform again.”
She didn’t really want him gone. Banter with a real life person would be a welcome addition into her life. Sure, she loved Greg and Barry, but they weren’t the most stimulating of conversationalists. She was just feeling snippy after having to look at his face for more than five seconds. At least, compared to the carefully sculpted visages of those waiting to hear her sing in the grand halls, his features were a little… simple? It was hard to describe. You could say that the rich were ethereal in their beauty, every bone perfectly aligned and skin as clear and smooth as silk. But they all looked the same in their perfection. His nose was slightly wonky, his hair too wild, mouth really too big, fingers too rough. But he was real in a way that no one had ever been. Nothing about him was perfect. Except those eyes, they were a God-given gift from God.
“I just wanted to get to know you a little.” He looked greatly embarrassed. “We got very – err – close last time we spoke. So I just thought…” he drew to a stuttering close. His acne-covered cheeks were flushed a dull red. It was… adorkable? Did people still use that word? Maybe it was too old already. The books Mrs Masilda deigned to provide her with didn’t give much detail on stuff like modern lingo. But he knew loads of stuff about the outside world. He had to live outside. He would have been born in a ‘hospital’ and gone to ‘school’ and had ‘friends’ and listened to ‘grunge’. All of sudden, she was incredibly excited. He could tell her everything. Maybe one day…
“You can stay.”
They talked every day. He would linger in her room after completing cleaning duties and she would hurry up from her performances so they could have a little private time together without drawing Her attention. It was dreadfully exhilarating. Not just because it was so rebellious but because she was learning just a little more about everything in each of their chats. She questioned him relentlessly and he did everything to suck up to her. It was endearing in a sad way. But she was not complaining. No way.
It was amazeballs.
Sometimes their talks were educational.
“You need to be relaxed when talking! You sound like you’re from a hundred years ago – all stuck-up and such.”
“Well I’m sorry that I find it degrading to talk like an uneducated dimwit.”
“Relax your words a little. Just let it flow instead of shoving all your thoughts into perfect, boxed-up conventions.”
“I like blue.”
“Huh?”
“I really like blue, like, the colour. You know what I mean!”
“No, that was good. Serious progress. You, like, used like. I’ve never heard you hesitate when speaking before.”
“I was trying really hard to seem stupid, bastard. But clearly my brilliance is much too great for the constraints of incorrect grammar to hide.”
“Yeah, course. You’re always right. Always right.”
Sometimes their talks were stupid.
“I think your eyes look like the sky. Is that right? The sky is blue right? So me saying that your eyes look like the sky is correct colourifically. Isn’t it?”
“…”
“Why are you laughing? Stop laughing you bastard!”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…”
“I said stop it stupid pauper!”
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Forgive me princess. Forgive the poor uneducated pauper. Please your highness, spare my deluded soul.”
“Fine, fine. I will forgive you for your transgressions this time. But if this happens again I will not be as lenient.”
“…”
“Alright, you are going to die now!”
“…!”
Sometimes their talks were sweet.
“I’ve got to go now, before She gets here and beheads me for breathing your air.”
“Seriously? I don’t have to go down for another twenty minutes. I order you to stay and tell me about school again.”
“Yes, of course, my princess.”
“Shut up, bastard.”
“Such uncouth language from such pretty a face, princess.”
“Humph.”
“…”
“What?”
“I don’t think I’ve heard such an unfeminine sound from you, like, ever, princess!”
“Goddamnit. I’m never asking you to stay ever again.”
“Have it told you the story about the funny dinner lady yet?”
“Wait? What?! No you haven’t. Hurry up and sit down.”
“… So easy to hook princess.”
“Argh!”
Sometimes, particularly at the beginning, their talks were very awkward.
“So, what did you want to know about?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“That’s what I said isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“So go.”
“Okay…”
“…”
“…”
“Go on then!”
“I don’t know what to start with. My life is really boring.”
“You live outside. How can it be boring?”
“Every day’s the same and my life is the same as everyone else’s. I don’t think someone like you would want to know about my life.”
“What do you mean by someone like me?”
“Well, you’re so famous. Everyone talks about you like you’re a goddess or something. This is really awkward for me, talking about my simple, boring life to someone as rich and brilliant as you.”
“Is that really what you think?”
“Yes! Me and everyone else on this goddamned planet.”
“Oh.”
“…”
“Just tell me about the world then. It doesn’t have to be about your life. Tell me about the sea. And the sky. And the grass. Describe them to me.”
“Errr… Okay…”
Sometimes they didn’t have much to say.
“So, have you done anything interesting in your oh so boring life outside, little pauper-boy?”
“Not really, princess.”
“Really? There must be something! Hasn’t anyone died from hypothermia in those dreadfully insulated houses of yours? I thought that half of the population are too poor to afford proper heating during the winter.”
“Princess, I’m not that poor. I live a pretty normal life with all the normal stuff. I don’t know what you’re imagining but my house is just a shrunken version of The Citadel. Plus, it’s summer, there’s no need for heating.”
“As if such trivialities bother me, bastard. I was merely raising a point. You must know of some poor people. Perhaps you pass them on the street and consider offering them money for a moment before realising those coins will buy you a really nice ice-cream and moving on.”
“Are you on something, princess? I think you’ve become delirious. There haven’t been homeless people since the turn of the century. Mrs Masilda has taken care of all that remember? I thought you would be an expert on the amazingness of Her.”
“Hmmm, She never really talked to me about things like this. I’ve only ever learnt anything from books and the occasional servant kind enough to stop by and speak to the poor prisoner.”
“Am I this ever so humble and well-mannered servant willing to give up his time for Her Highness’ needs?”
“Please, you’re my slave, pauper. You stay here because you are enthralled by my brilliance.”
“Of course, princess. You keep telling yourself that.”
But they always managed to say stuff anyway.
Sometimes they would get a serious case of word vomit and not shut up.
For hours.
And hours.
“Wait, so grass is green and fun to rip apart when bored in the summer.”
“Yes.”
“Is that it? Because the dictionary describes it as: vegetation consisting of typically short plants with long, narrow leaves, growing wild or cultivated on lawns and pasture, and as a fodder crop.”
“Errr, yeah. I guess that’s a better description.”
“Well, I’ve known that for ages. I want to know what you think of it.”
“I don’t really know what to say. No one’s every asked me what grass is.”
“Then you’d better hurry up and start thinking then hadn’t you!”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“…”
“Hmmm…”
“Can you hurry up?”
“Sorry, sorry. You told me to think about it.”
“And I also told you to hurry up about it!”
“But you only told me to hurry up and start thinking, not finish thinking.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And proud, princess.”
“So, thanks to your very stupid digression, you’ve stopped thinking about grass again.”
“No I haven’t. I was perfectly capable of telling you about it from the beginning.”
“What?!”
“Your face was just too funny.”
“I hate you, bastard.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Just hurry up and talk will you?”
“Grass is the same colour as your eyes. And they catch the dew in the morning so if it’s really cold, the water freezes into pretty white patterns over the green and the leaves snap and crunch under your feet as you run over the glen. In the summer, you can lie down and feel the strands tickle your face. When they’ve started flowering, the grass filaments are like feathers and make me sneeze like crazy. And if you’re really bored watching your siblings chase each other round in circles, you can pluck a blade, pull it tight between your lips and it will make a stupid sound when you blow out.
“There are different kinds of grass as well. My favourite is the stringy grass that rips in perfect strands. Also, if you’re really stingy, you can use long strands of grass to decorate bouquets. I did that for my mum once, when I was about 10, and she still loved it even though it had only been a rough clump of random flowers I had found out in the fields. When I was 7, my older brother and his friends dared me to eat a whole handful of grass. Obviously, I was the most daring 7 year old ever so I took up the challenge. And regretted it so bad. Grass is disgusting and I don’t know how cows survive.”
“I’m glad to see you have a weak stomach, peasant.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased, princess.”
“You said that grass is the same colour as my eyes.”
“Yeah, your eyes are the colour of grass under the summer sun, before they get all dry and dead.”
“I do hope that the infinite doorways to my soul don’t look dead.”
“I’m sorry princess, but I really have to go. It’s the morning already.”
“Oh please, no one’s going to come and check on us.”
“But if she does come, I’ll be more than dead.”
“Humph, so? You’ll have died so I could have the best company.”
“You think I’m the ‘best company’ then?”
“What? No of course not. I meant the best that you could provide.”
“Of course, princess.”
“Fine, just go before I kill you and rip your disgusting face from your stupid dead.”
“I’ll bring you some grass tomorrow - if you want.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah…”
“No snippy comment? No snide remark? Really, princess. You’re losing your touch!”
“Just leave!”
Sometimes their talks were hurtful.
“Go away.”
“What? Why? We haven’t even sat down yet, princess.”
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“… Why?”
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
“I don’t understand. We’ve been seeing each other for three years.”
“And now you’ve told me everything I need to know about the outside world.”
“I can tell you more! There’s loads of stuff you don’t know yet.”
“I don’t need you anymore.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Why would I joke with you?”
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying”
“Of course I know what I’m saying! I think I understand my wants and needs better than you do.”
“Do you really?”
“I can’t believe you would think something like that! I am perfectly capable -”
“I don’t think you’re thinking clearly. Can you at least tell me what brought this on?”
“No. Just get out, alright?”
“I can’t leave you like this. You’ll do something stupid.”
“What can I do trapped in this room anyway? NOTHING!”
“…”
“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know me at all. You don’t understand what I’m going through. No one understands!”
“I think I understand better than most people. These talks haven’t just been utter trash you know.”
“No, don’t think that you can win this argument. Remember who you’re talking to. I am the most prized singer of the richest person in this country. Think carefully before you open your mouth again.”
“Okay… Okay… I’ll leave now.”
“Good.”
“But you’d better remember that.”
“What?”
“You’re just a possession. And you’ll never be anything else.”
Sometimes their talks were comforting.
“You’re suspiciously quiet today. What’s wrong? Is the weather really horrible? Is it raining really badly – if so, why are you dry?”
“No, it’s not raining.”
“Oh, because I really want to see the rain. You told me it’s like taking a really cold shower. But I think there must be a freedom about it. Like you’re all alone in the pouring rain, and all you can hear is the thundering splashes, and if you close your eyes, you could be the owner of the world.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Honestly, what is wrong with you today? You’re a worse conversationalist that normal. Talking to you has become positively tedious.”
“Do you really think that?”
“What?”
“That I’m boring.”
“Well, I never said that.”
“Just, please. Tell me.”
“Oh, alright. If you insist.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“You’re not boring per se.”
“Per se?”
“Well I – I don’t – I just think – You’re not boring to be around.”
“Right…”
“No, honestly. Don’t make me say it again.”
“Okay.”
“What brought this on?”
“You did.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. Amazing, perfect you. Beautiful, famous, talented you.”
“I -”
“Everyone knows your name. Everyone worships you as Masilda’s glorious, singing angel. And no one believes me when I say that I talk to you every day. They laugh at me. Tell me that I’m not good enough. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter. Your opinion matters more than everyone else’s.”
“I’m glad that you feel that way.”
“I try to feel that way.”
But they always meant more to her than anything else.
“I hate you, bastard.”
“I hate you too, princess.”
It had been five years since their original meeting. He was the only person she talked to for half a decade so them growing close had been inevitable. She sang to him sometimes, songs that didn’t come from a piece of paper, written by the most exalted songwriters, and instead came from her heart. It might sound cheesy and awfully cliché, and it had constantly annoyed her in the beginning, but she had begun to except it, because they were beautiful. The songs she would sing to him, trapped in her room, alone but for the humming of computers, would take them everywhere, places of grand splendour – far greater than The Citadel – that he had described to her with loving detail, and surround them in hordes of mystical creatures with mindboggling names.
They were a thousand times more beautiful.
One night, as the two of them lay together on her bed, limbs intertwined, humming soft tunes under their breaths, their quiet, peaceful world was ripped apart. The door was thrown open. And there stood Mrs Masilda. But this time, She wasn’t alone. This time, She wasn’t shocked. This time, they weren’t as lucky. Guards, bedecked in suits of mottled brown, streamed out from behind Her stiff back. Their rough hands grabbed him and tore them apart.
No one spoke.
Mrs Masilda stood by the doorway, face calm, body stiff and eyes blazing. The soldiers were blank slates of obedience; they didn’t question their boss – ever. And she just sat there, unable to breathe. All she could see were his bright blue eyes. All she could hear were his harsh breaths. All she could feel was his festering pain. Her eyes stung with tears that refused to fall.
The guards scuttled out, lugging him behind them like a piece of meat. Mrs Masilda was suddenly right in front of her, hand secured around her slim arm in a vice-like grip. She dragged her outside. Her knees scraped against the rough carpet of the hallway. Her grass-eyes followed the simple, hypnotic diamonds on the floor as She hauled her towards the stairs. Stairs was strange. She had never been up stairs before. He had told her about them. He had told her that cows couldn’t walk down them and they had laughed together. For hours. Because he just wasn’t funny.
No one made any noise.
Slowly up the stairs they went. It was tiring. Neither was used to the physical effort of raising their bodies up in the earth’s magnetic field over and over again. Her shins hit the cold stone again and again but she didn’t cry when the bruises started to form. She had no clue where they were going. She had always been told that she lived at the top of The Citadel. So why were they still climbing?
Still, no one had said a word.
Cold. It was so cold. A freezing blast of air hit her face and all of sudden the fresh yet acrid scents of the city began to overwhelm her, the random blasts of odours she couldn’t understand, ones she couldn’t place, rushed through her head, cutting harshly, causing a blistering burn to sear and smother all of her senses. Her eyes watered, and this time it was from true pain. When she opened her lips to suck in desperate gasps of bitter air, she winced as the oily tang hit her tongue and encased her throat. She began to crave the mildly-scented air-conditioning of her room. He had never told her about this. He had never told her how disgusting the air was.
Despite her choking, she still didn’t make a sound.
Before her sprawled millions of glowing lights, each flickering and dimming like a real flame, illuminating the night sky stretching above her. They were so tiny, perched as she was on the incline of an enormous cliff, and seemed so far away. Small, glittering stars of freedom trapped and strangled by the plumes of thick, gritty dust pouring from thousands of holes tearing the ground open. She wanted to cry. She wanted to let go so badly.
She stared out into the city, trying to immerse herself in the trembling lights, straining her ears to catch the slightest hint of the fabled city life, the honking, the shouting, the rushing. But all she could hear was his wheezes of pain as they hit soft flesh, his abrupt gulps when their sticks snapped bone, his harsh hacks. She thought she could feel the blood on her face.
She shivered in the cold air.
But still, her mouth remained tightly shut.
“Nothing then?” She could sense Her grinning, finding everything awfully funny. “Should we make him scream? Would that affect you my pretty bird? Do you want to find out?”
His groans grew louder. Occasionally, she would hear a muffled scream.
Her eyes were wide open. Not looking. Never looking. She couldn’t see him. So he didn’t exist.
He wasn’t in pain.
This was all a dream.
She wasn’t going to cry.
No.
She was strong.
And she hated that bastard anyway.
“Did you really think that I wasn’t monitoring you two from the beginning? Do you think that I didn’t know exactly what you were saying to each other? Those songs were lovely by the way, very pretty. Very sweet.”
She felt sick.
“He’s a nice person isn’t he – for a peasant. But remember, you dragged him down into your dirty ways. He’s there, dying, because of you, your little bastard.”
When she said it, it sounded so cold, so mean, so violating.
“So, do you want to say goodbye? Open your pretty mouth and sing him a little goodbye number, you have an impressive repertoire after all. Go on, sing little bird. Sing!”
They were dragging his limp body toward the edge. He could barely struggle. They were so close now. Half of his body hung in open air. She opened her mouth. And he looked at her. He tried so hard to see her, blue eyes wide, pupils blown.
“No…”
It’s scarcely a whisper, lost in the murky air.
He fell.
People say that the fall should happen in slow motion. They should meet eyes one last time and a confession would be screamed. And then the eyes would close. A prayer murmured. And tears should rush up in an uncontrollable waterfall.
But everything was a blur. It had all been too fast for her to understand. One moment he was there and she could see his perfect eyes. And then he was gone. Down into the lights.
Or the belching smoke.
She was carted back to her room, tucked under the covers. She ruffled her hair and left a warm glass of lemon tea – for her throat. She lay there for days, only getting up to wretch emptily into the porcelain toilet bowl. Broken, empty, and silent, she had lost her voice. She could no longer sing. The steaming tea was replaced each day by a silent ghost.
It was never touched.
She was useless now, but She didn’t give up, refusing to lose everyone’s favourite pet. She tried everything, even going as far as to introduce her to new servants.
Nothing worked.
Nothing.
It had been a week since The Incident. In the dead of night, she heaved herself up to the roof, up all those stairs. She felt the wind slash over her pale skin, whip through her long hair, and dry her tears. This time the wind is comforting in its severity – a strict mother punishing her naughty child.
She looked out over the glowing city. And she remembered his eyes, brighter than all the lights of the greatest metropolis on the planet – a true heaven.
She closed her eyes and breathed.
In.
Out.
That day, the song-bird flew down from the tower and escaped her gilded cage.
Birds can fly, catch the wind beneath spread wings, but if you clip those wings, truss them up and pull out each feather so the bird can only sing, then she cannot fly.
She can only fall.
Far down into the lights.
"Forever and ever, we can be together. Amaranth"