Flames of Colour

My fingers have been numb since I woke up this morning. Actually, now that I think of it, my fingers have been numb since yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. I think all of me is numb.

I mechanically screw on the last cog of the clock I am working on, then pass it to my right. I finish off the next clock that is handed to me- and the next one, and the next one, and the next. I think I have been doing this forever, until I remember that I will be going home to apartment 771C when the whistle shrieks from the Tower.

Everything is ruled from the Tower. Everyone is watched from the Tower. My life revolves around the dictates written for me from the Tower. No one breaks the rules.

The same steady rhythm, ever since I can remember, has been thrumming in the Clock Plant. The sound of people screwing on clock plates, cogs, and gears. The screech of cutting metal and the hammering are the same.

I have been assigned to screwing cogs on the clocks, as I have mentioned before. My quota is 10,000 clocks per day. Apparently these clocks get shipped to all parts of this City. According to the Tower, we are increasing exponentially everyday, and now number sixteen billion strong.

I have been told that there is no land outside the City, and no ruler except for the Tower. I have been told that my actions increase the significance of the City. Just like a clock, my part as a cog-screwer is essential to the uniformity of the City.

I think I am proud of the City. At least, I have been told I am.

The shrill sound comes and cuts through me. I leave my space at the four-hundred metre long table and assemble into line. I make sure that I am the 5,869th in line. If I am not, I am in danger of a more difficult work sentence in the Clock Plant. Once, when I was very young in the cog-screwing industry, I noticed a man become out of place in line, which set off everyone after him. I never saw him again.

I march out after everyone, making sure to grab my bag of food, which always consists of black bread, meat, and a glass of hydrating drink. This is my pay. I think I am happy about my pay. At least, I have been told I am.

It is foggy outside, as usual. The Tower told us it is foggy because some accursed individual rebelled against the Tower and threw clouds to cover the sun. I think I believe this story. At least, I have been told that I do.

I march home, like I always have. Once I close the door behind me, I sit down to eat. My food tastes the same. The bread is gritty, but at least the hydrating drink temporarily satisfies my thirst. Immediately after I eat, I sit down to read out of the Book of Educational Material. Everyone does this after work.

The Book of Educational Material is about the story of the City and the origins of the Tower. It magnifies the greatness of the City and the excellence of the Tower. It tells about the True Purpose of Life. The True Purpose of Life is to obey and to always obey the Tower. I am satisfied in obeying the Tower. At least, I have been told that I am.

My clock is ticking on the wall. There are five hours. First is the Good Waking Hour, then the Joyful Work Hour, then the Dismissal Hour, then the Enlightening Study Hour, and last the Restful Sleep Hour. The longest is the Joyful Work Hour, and the shortest the Restful Sleep Hour. The clocks are inscribed with these words, and the Tower sounds out the times. 

My Enlightening Study Hour is nearly complete when I hear sobbing outside of my door. According to the Tower, if we ever hear sounds that are not in the normal schedule, we must dismiss them and continue our tasks.

Unfortunately for me, I suppose, I look out my door to find the arrest of a woman. She is clutching at the legs of one of the Bionic Soldiers. She begs them to leave her alone, and she will go back to work as normal on the next day. No one notices me. The Bionic Soldiers ignore her pleas and drag her away. They leave her door open.

My Motherly Role-Player always told me I was too curious for my own good. I think that it is true. At least, that is what I have been told. 

I step out of my apartment, 771C, and enter the woman’s apartment, 772C. It is the same as mine: dim, dark, and dull. However, the only difference is that instead of the Book of Educational Material on her study table sits a different one. It is smaller. Somehow, it is one of the brightest things I have ever seen. It seems to illuminate the walls and ceiling. I read the title: Santos. It is something I do not understand. Is this cryptic? I study the cover some more. I notice that its luminescence comes from something I have never seen before. I place my hand beside the Santos book. Why is my hand so pale?

I then realize it is something that I have read from the Book of Educational Material. This book, Santos, is from the accursed individual who threw the clouds over our sun. I am supposed to be disgusted. At least, I have been told that I am supposed to be. I try to withdraw from the Santos book. I find I cannot.

I hear marching of the Bionic Soldiers. I know they are coming to destroy the book. Before I even know what I am doing, I take the Santos book. I dash back to my apartment in a fluster of panic. I hide the book under my mattress. In order to appear composed, I sit down at my study table and resume reading the Book of Educational Material. It is boring.

I can hear cries of outrage from the Bionic Soldiers. They know the Santos book is missing. Instead of searching for it, I hear them leave. I think I am calm. I realize that they will wait for the Tower to tell them of my treachery.

The Tower sounds out the Restful Sleep Hour. I reach for the Santos book under my mattress and look at it. It illuminates my ceiling, my hands, and my face. It hurts my eyes. I open it to the first page. It makes no sense to me, yet I cannot put it down. There are illustrations in it, and they are beautiful. I feel something leap in my chest. I realize that my heart is stirring within me. I have never felt this before. And I have never been told that I have not.

The Santos book is breathtaking. I keep reading about this word- colour. I do not understand what it is. There is a strange sensation in my hands. A feeling like bubbles rises in my stomach. I think this is what the Santos book means by laughter. My hands do not feel numb. Is this what the Santos book means by warmth?

The Tower whistles for the Good Waking Hour. I do not want to put the book down. However, I know that if I do not, I will get caught like the woman next door.

I reluctantly hide the wonderful Santos book. Immediately all light disappears from my room. I have never felt so elated in my life. The Tower always tells us we are happy. I know that the Tower is wrong. No one told me so.

As usual, I prepare for work at the Clock Plant and arrive by the time the Tower whistles for the Joyful Work Hour. I continuously think about the Santos book while I work. This time my hands are not numb. 

I begin to look around the Clock Plant at other workers. No one dares to look up. Everyone is mechanically screwing, hammering, or sawing. Everyone wears the same thing and wears the same dull expression on their faces. I realize that I looked like that yesterday.

My hands keep their mechanical motion, but it is not painful. I feel light inside, and I know I am. I keep screwing the cogs onto the clocks.

When I raise my head again, I catch the eyes of a young man across the room. We look at each other and understand. He knows about the Santos book, too!

When the Tower signals the Dismissal Hour, I hope to catch the young man. I reach for my bag of food, then turn for home. I walk slowly today. I have never done so before. I am nearly home when I feel someone tapping on my shoulder.

It is the young man! He motions for me to follow him into a small alley between apartments C and D on my street. We barely fit, but it is very dark in there, and we cannot be seen by anyone who could inform the Tower.

The young man pulls something from his pockets. It is small, but its brightness makes it appear bigger than it really is. 

“This,” the young man whispers into my ear, “is a match.” I look dismayed. To my astonishment, his mouth turns into an upward curve. It must be what the Santos book calls a smile.

“It will free you from this City. You only have to strike it on something hard,” he tells me.

My throat is dry, but I speak. “Don’t you need it?” The young man shakes his head. He tells me, “I have been sent here to give it to the one who read the Santos book. The woman you saw taken yesterday did not strike hers in time.” I feel puzzled. I want to talk with the young man about the Santos book, but he pushes me into the street. I never see him again.

Day after day I keep the match in my pocket. I want to be freed from the City and the rule of the Tower. The Santos book tells me to strike the match. I do not strike it because I do not want to lose the Santos book.

Then, one day, I hear Bionic Soldiers marching down the corridors of my apartment during the Enlightening Study Hour. I know they are coming for me. I read tonight in the Santos book to never fear. I realize that in the City we always fear the judgment of the Tower. The judgment of the Tower has come on me tonight.

I stand near my bed. The iron bed frame is the hardest item in my room. I stand strong. I smile as the door falls down. I strike the match. I see the angry face of the Bionic Soldier. My world bursts into flames of colour.