Zaria Dove

So Called Home

I never really paid attention to what my mom said, not because I hated her or anything, but because I knew there was no way anyone could see me practicing on the rooftop.

Our living space was like a long, narrow hostel or maybe even a prison. Behind us, a huge chunk of land floated high up in the sky, making it impossible for someone me or any other human being to reach it.

Right in front of our home was the backside of this massive building, a Type C structure with shiny, thick bricks stacked up high. I had no idea what they were made of.

On one side, there was a deep, dark void that seemed to stretch on forever, and on the other side, there were these tiny houses that looked tiny compared to the grandeur of my own building. That's why we called our place the Quadragenatorium, or QGT for short.

So, you see, I had no reason to listen to my mom's warnings. As soon as she left, I took a look around my messy room and thought about how strange it was that women were only allowed to decorate spaces when they were explicitly told to do so.

I left everything as it was and stood by my window. The room was simple, with just a single wooden bed and a small mirror hanging in front of it.

No fancy dressing table or couch, just a bag filled with my essentials - toothbrush, hairbrush, and a device for listening to music. I also had a few clothes, a compact shampoo dispenser, and a matching soap dispenser.

Facing me was yet another window, positioned on the wall opposite the door to my room. It was through that door that my mom would make her entrance, ready to scold me or whisk me away.

Tossing my jacket aside, I flopped onto the bed, fully aware that I needed to wake up early to avoid being the last one to use the bathroom. I had heard whispers of a hot shower being available tomorrow.

As I drifted off to sleep, I buried my face in the pillow and couldn't help but criticize myself. "Seriously? Is this how you plan to face the unseen? You're such a letdown," I grumbled, cursing myself into slumber.

The next morning, I woke up resembling a soaked chicken, with my hair in complete disarray. But I preferred it that way. I didn't want to be the flawless woman for some entitled Type C Brat. I tucked my brush into my pants' loops and the shampoo dispenser into the other one, then hurried out of my room.

Before me stretched a corridor, slightly wider than the other two that branched off to my left and right. This particular corridor housed three rooms on each side, along with a barricaded wide door that used to lead to a spacious terrace. Unfortunately, the authorities had sealed it off after a girl jumped from the terrace the night before her wedding.

As I made my way down the right hallway, I see a small window tucked away in the corner. It seemed insignificant compared to what awaited me on the left. Over there, a stairway called out to me, promising to take me down to the bustling mezzanine below.

Without wasting any time, I focused my attention on the closed doors in front of me. I knew I had to make a quick decision. With a surge of adrenaline, I sprinted towards the stairway, hearing the doors unlock behind me with multiple clicks.

As I descended the staircase, gripping the railing for support, I could feel the guard patrol getting closer. Time was running out, and just as their presence became more imminent, I found myself in a line of people, blending in seamlessly with the crowd.

A few annoyed girls squirmed and muttered under their breath, clearly unimpressed by my bold move. Just as I started to believe that I had successfully evaded the watchful eyes of the guards, a familiar voice called out to me, "Hey, you!"

I turned my head to the left, and there he was, Type C's commanding officer. How could I forget? The sunburst scar above his jaw, a scar that I had given him.

It had been five years since my father's death, and a year after that tragedy, I found myself in a dangerous situation. I had been caught stealing supplies from a demolished mall, where security was still present.

The reason for the arrests was absurd - the authorities were clueless about the chemicals being sold there. Can you believe it? Nevertheless, I was determined to gather what I needed - hair dye, paint tubes, and spray bottles. I was being quite sneaky until I clumsily dropped a bottle, catching everyone's attention.

The commanding officer, along with the others, approached me. Two of his men grabbed me by the shoulders and brought me before him. My legs trembled uncontrollably, like a little beetle. Finally, they released their grip, and I stood before him.

Despite being just 14 years old, I had a noticeable built.

When he looked at me, he didn't see a child, but a girl. I could feel the disgust in his gaze, and it made me sick.

"Make her kneel!" he sneered.

The guard forcefully pushed me down, and as I glanced around, I noticed the guard on my left holding a lit cigarette. Having no choice I knelt, following the officer's command.

He came closer from behind, and in that moment, I knew it was now or never. I quickly smashed my head against his nose.

Taking advantage of the chaos, I grabbed the cigarette from the guard and pressed it against the officer's cheek. He let out a scream of pain.

It was the first time I had ever hurt someone, and the sound of his scream echoed in my ears.

Without hesitation, I ran away, tightly clutching the stolen bag as his men chased after me.

I spotted a pile of junk up ahead and leaped over it. Then, I saw a large sewer hole and slipped through it, leaving them clueless about where I had gone. By the time they returned to their commander, I had already made my way back to the QGT, triumphant.