Let Me Fly Free (13 page)

Light floods my
vision
, but there’s no warmth in it, and I
shut my eyes, wondering where it’s coming from. The darkness
returns, and not just the darkness of my vision, but something far
deeper, a terrifying abyss that freezes my heart.

The darkness in my mind.

I know I’m lying on a hard
surface, and that I woke up here a moment ago, but before that,
there’s nothing –
nothing.
Just a yawning maw of blackness gaping across my
thoughts, a monstrous beast that hollowed out my head, leaving
emptiness where memories should have been. Coldness wraps my entire
being like an icy blanket; even the air in my lungs chills me.
Questions assault me, a million flaming arrows aiming for my heart,
and one strikes its target with the greatest impact:
Where am I?

I sit up and blink, turning my face away
from the whiteness that blinded me before. And all I see is ice.
Ice and iron. Thick bars stretch up from the ground before me,
reaching for the dark ceiling, with frozen water filling the narrow
spaces between them. The frosty, pale blue wall glimmers,
frightening and mesmerizing at once. It looks so sturdy, it might
as well be a mountain, cutting me off from any hope of escape in
that direction. Only a small, round window – the source of the
light – breaks its otherwise solid form. The cold floor stings my
bare feet as I stand and approach it, hoping a glimpse outside
might help me figure out where I am. But the window is barely
bigger than my hand, and all I see outside is a vast stretch of
snow and the pale, empty sky above it. Nothing that tells me
anything except this: I don’t belong here.

But where
do
I belong? I sense a
great shadow looming over me, as if an invisible knife hangs over
my head, and hug my bare arms. But the gesture brings me no
comfort, for these pale, slight limbs look foreign, though they’re
parts of me. I realize I haven’t even a memory of my own appearance
– whether my legs are long or short, whether my face is
heart-shaped or round, whether my eyes are black or blue. Who or
even
what
I am.
The very body I inhabit might as well be a stranger, and the
unfamiliarity sends a new chill racing down my spine. If I don’t
even know what I look like, how can I hope to discover who I am?
Where I came from? Or how I ended up in this icy prison?

A shiver runs through me at
the thought, giving my whole body a violent shake, and I clench my
jaw in an attempt to stop it. There must be a clue around here
somewhere, and I might find it if I can just pull myself together
long enough to look. Glancing down, I see that I’m wearing a thin,
azure dress that barely reaches my knees, with a top that hangs
loosely over my torso from a knot at the nape of my neck, leaving
my back and shoulders exposed. I inhale, reminding myself that even
this detail is
something
; it tells me that I must
have come from someplace much warmer.

But where?

I knit my eyebrows, searching for memories –
how old I am, who my family is, what skills I’ve learned … a
cascade of questions tumbles through my head, each yelling for
attention and demanding to be answered. What is this place? And why
can’t I remember how I got here? 

But though I scour my mind, only an empty
void greets me. I don’t even know my own name.

My pulse crescendos with fear, and the
shadow of danger grows even darker, closing in around me. I draw a
long breath, firmly telling myself to stay calm. I can figure this
out if I just focus on one question at a time.

Then something glints at the edge of my
vision, and I realize it’s my own hair. I reach behind me and pull
forward one long, straight lock. It’s as pale as my hand, tinted
with only the faintest hint of gold. Is it almost white because I’m
old? I run my fingers across my face, and the smoothness of my skin
gives me the answer to that question: I must be young. Narrow nose,
high cheeks, slim eyebrows … I trace each contour with my
fingertips, and try to envision what I look like. Part of me says
that it’s not important – a frivolous detail compared to the larger
questions looming over me – but I can’t help fixating on it.

I look down and take in
what parts of myself my eyes can reach – slight shoulders, small
chest, narrow hips. Twig-like legs. Bony wrists. Long, straight
hair that reaches my waist. This is
me
, and I shouldn’t have to feel
strange in my own skin. If I could just find that one thread
connecting what I see to what I remember, maybe I could follow it
and recover at least one piece of myself.

So I paint a self-portrait,
based on what I’ve observed, and concentrate on the image. The face
remains a dark shadow, though, and I focus on that. Surely I must
have seen my reflection in the past, in a mirror or a window or
even a bucket of water. If I could just recall that single
moment
, I’d have an
answer, and maybe that would lead to more.

Because if I can’t even recall this simple
detail, what hope do I have of escaping the dreaded shadow?
 

Closing my eyes, I put all my focus on this
one simple task and nothing else, trying to sharpen the
self-portrait and fill in the blank face with what I puzzled out by
touch. The ache returns, and part of me wants to throw up my hands
and yell, “This is hopeless!” But I press on, concentrating so hard
that I barely feel the coldness surrounding me anymore. I’m so
close …

Suddenly an image flashes through my head: a
slender girl with sky blue eyes and long, straight hair. And, most
importantly, a face. Perhaps … could it be? Is this skinny,
bird-like girl, whose wide eyes seem to radiate naïveté, me?

Please let it
be
, a desperate voice whispers in my
heart.
Please say my efforts led to
something real …

A great feeling of
familiarity strikes me to the core, and a glow begins to enter my
mind, as if a crack has appeared in a cloud-covered sky and
revealed a ray of light.
Yes, it’s
me
. The knowledge feels as certain as the
sun shining outside that tiny window, and sudden relief envelops me
as I realize I’m one step closer to being whole again. So I
can
recover memories
after all. Small as this victory is, it tells me there are more
triumphs to be had if I work for them.

And I
must
. I have to know who I am, and
where I’ve come from. How I came to be here. How to get
out.

But my sense of victory is short-lived, for
the invisible knife, the danger I can’t identify but whose presence
I feel with every nerve, still hangs over me. If I’m to escape it,
I need to uncover more recollections … starting with my name. That
could be the next marker in a trail of memories that will lead me
home. I know I have one. I feel it in my innermost core – a sense
of self whose presence was once as sure as the sun shining outside.
But now there’s only hollowness within, as if someone stole a piece
of my soul.

Still, there must be
something
left, and if I
defeated the darkness once, I can do it again. I just need to find
a thread, like I did with my appearance, that will lead me to what
I seek. So I whisper random syllables, hoping the sound or cadence
of one will somehow trigger the memory of something more. “Tah …
Roh … Kee …”

Sudden white-hot pain fills my head, like a
burning blade slicing me, and a million tiny daggers lance through
my skull, each stabbing me with such force that I feel as if my
whole body might shatter.

I cry out in shock and grab at my hair, as
if ripping at it might tear away the pain as well. I claw my scalp,
knowing it’s useless, but unable to keep myself from this vain
attempt to stop the great fire. Before I can do anything further,
my legs buckle beneath me, and I collapse to the ground.

The impact of the hard metal floor shakes
the flames away, and I gasp at the abrupt relief. My knees and
shoulders ache from the fall, but their throbbing is nothing
compared to the agony I just felt.

I breathe hard, and my
heart hammers in my chest.
What was
that?

I look around wildly,
wondering if something attacked me, but all I see are the iron bars
and the ice between them. Then a thought strikes me:
All
I see are the bars
and the ice, no matter which way I turn. Except for the one small
window, there’s no break in the four frozen walls surrounding
me.

There’s no way out.

No, that can’t be; I must
be missing something. I got in here somehow, didn’t I? Certain
I
must
be wrong,
I scramble up to the wall and run my fingers over the hard,
freezing mass. Maybe I’m neglecting something with my eyes – maybe
there’s a hidden door. I sweep my hands across the cold surface,
and the chill bites my skin.

But there’s nothing.

No matter how I feel along
the edges of the iron bars or search the ridges in the ice, I can’t
find even a single crack.
Maybe I can make
one
, I tell myself in a vain attempt to
keep my head steady.
Maybe this ice isn’t
as thick as it looks, and I can break down this wall.
Hoping with all my heart that I’m right, I ball
up my fists and pound against it.

The impact sends a bolt of pain shooting up
my hand, but the ice doesn’t budge. I hit harder and harder, until
I’m sure I’ll shatter my bones and then, realizing these actions
are useless, I flatten my palms and push against it, throwing all
my weight forward. My fingers go numb, but I ignore them.

Maybe this wall is stronger than the other
three. I turn to the next one and pound and push until my hands are
so sore and cold, I feel like they might fall off. But nothing I do
sends so much as a ripple of vibration through the thick ice. My
hands look pathetically small against the great surface they’re
fighting, and while part of me yearns to keep trying, I know I’ll
break them for real if I do, and still be trapped.

Catching a glimpse of the window, I rush
toward it. The wall around the opening is also made of ice – maybe
I can widen it. I dig my fingers into its lower edge and tear,
desperately using every ounce of strength I have. Though I rip at
the ice until my fingers are raw, I can’t scrape off a single
shard. My breath quickens, until it becomes ragged gasps, and my
heart pounds with increasing panic, filling my ears with its
desperate drumming. No matter what I do, though, no matter what I
try, I can’t escape.

I’m trapped.

Exhausted, I collapse against the wall and
sink to the ground. My whole body shakes with the cold I can no
longer ignore, and I hug my knees to my chest in an effort to warm
up. Hot, powerful tears sting my eyes, and dread weighs down with
such heaviness that I feel it crushing me. Did someone leave me
here to die? Why would they do that? Who could they be?

And who am I?

Just then, a loud clanging noise ripples
through the air, and I jump. Realizing that someone else might be
outside, and that they might be able to help me, I scramble to my
feet and open my mouth to shout.

But then black shadows appear on the other
side of the ice, their dark forms vaguely visible through its
bluish surface, and my voice dies in my throat. There are at least
six or seven figures – tall and shapeless, yet menacing. They draw
closer, speaking in low, muffled voices like thunder rumbling in
the distance.

Thunder
. I remember thunder, roaring in my ears. And lightning,
splitting the sky. And rain, both pounding in relentless fury and
flurrying in a fine mist. I remember all these elements of the
weather – and others, like wind, and fog, and snow … so why can’t I
remember my name? How is it that I possess so much knowledge about
the world, and yet nothing about myself?

Meanwhile, the shadows continue approaching,
until they’re so near that I could touch them if the wall didn’t
stand between us. Their looming presence makes me shudder. What are
they? What will they do to me?

Then, a deep, commanding voice booms through
the barrier: “Wall of ice, open yourself for me.”