I long for nature. I long for the caress of grass on my calves as I kneel on a picnic blanket, the wind through my hair and the sweet smell of flowers filling my nose. I long to travel, to see Paris in all its glory. To see the Eiffel tower, the hustle and bustle of the streets of France. To taste exotic foods and learn new, exciting things. Oh, how I long for contact to the outside world. But alas, I am here in this tower. Trapped and unable to free myself from this cage. The walls seem to cave in on me day after day, and no matter how much I scream for someone to find me, to set me free and let me go, no one answers my pleading. No one raps at the door or waves to me from the city below. No one talks to me, and no one acknowledges how I stare out the large window in my library, trying to squint and see through the thick clouds and onto the platforms of the magnificent floating city. All I see is buildings, buildings, and more buildings. I see specks, and that's all the proof there is for another to be lingering around my unwanted, desolate home; my island. Little squares of Finkton shipping crates shift along the skylines, along with the occasional blimp streaming past. They don't wave. They don't honk their horn or let down a flag. Just another to ignore me.
Days seem to blur together, forming into one unidentifiable mess that's hard to sort out and section off to be understandable. There's no one to talk to, no one to have a decent conversation with. No other human being inhabits my closed in 'home.' For the only...creature I have contact with is Songbird. I don't know his true name, and part of me really doesn't want to, anyway. He brings me food. He brings me water and supplies for me to live. And he's summoned with a certain song, a certain phrase of musical notes that flow from a statue on my library, only causing Songbird to appear at the window. He's like an overprotective parent. If a parent was a massive metal bird-creature with an abnormal wingspan and eyes that shift color according to what they're feeling. Honestly, that would be quite...terrifying to say the least.
And no, I'm not afraid of this 'bird.' Well, maybe a bit- but over the years, I've come to resent it. I've come to absolutely loathe that horrible creature. Maybe it was that who locked me up in this tower? Maybe it was that...thing that won't let me leave no matter how much I plead or sob. Yes, I've cried before. It's humiliating to shed tears as the eerie eyes of Songbird watches over me through the window overlooking my library, I must admit. But now, I tend to yell. I yell and I curse and I blame. What else is there to do? For I'm locked in this place with nothing to do other than stock up on information, read books, and go throughout my daily ritual over and over and over again. It's tedious, boring, and completely aggravating waking up and knowing what you're going to do for the whole entire day. Nothing is exciting. Nothing is going to make you smile other than maybe a comedic book lying on one of the many shelves of the seemingly overstocked library (it's not that I have a problem with it being overstocked- reading is one of my passions, and one of the only sources of entertainment I have here).
Reading. Reading, as I said, was one of my passions. And it was one of the only entertainments that I had for me other than watching the clouds go by out the library window or singing and dancing along the different rooms and hallways. I've become quite keen on singing, and I'm actually proud of my voice as I sing. Light and airy, I always remind myself. Light, airy, but strong at the same time. If I had an audience, I would belt out to my heart's content, smiling from ear to ear and spinning in a silk skirt while my hair is curled into ringlets that bounce around my blushing cheeks. But, that's only a dream. I have no silk skirt. I don't have bouncy, curly, ringlet hair. I don't have blushing cheeks. And I don't have an audience.
Other than fantasizing what could have been, I spend most of my time slaving over books and reading away to find out new information. I read mostly about quantum physics, medical topics, any type of science that my expansive library holds, a variety of novels, and other books on how to do certain things like make a origami crane to picking a lock. I loaded up on this information, drinking in as much as my mind could handle. I filled up until I was leaking from the cracks, leaking unimportant facts to ones such as dressing a severe wound. Some of these skills I've learned were put to me escaping, such as picking locks. It took just a regular, everyday bobby pin that you could pull from your bathroom or bedroom; bending it and twisting it in such a way that when you stuck it into a keyhole, you would turn it and the lock would fall right off. Easy. Well, easy enough for me. I mean, hey, I literally have all the time in the world to do whatever in this tower. It's not like someone is going to bust in and scoop me up and save me like some cliche romance novel (which was something I rarely read; the genre not my cup of tea). When that happens, that's when I know I'm dreaming.
And I've dreamed of being saved before.
I've dreamed of being saved by someone, anyone. One time it was a man with brunette hair that looked soft to the touch and stubble on his cheeks; a hardened profile and a battered look to the way he presented himself. This man kept appearing in my dreams, though, recently, he hasn't visited. Another time the police rushed in and got me out, like in a crime novel where a woman was kidnapped and locked in a small house only to be rescued years and years later. I am that woman, and my tower is the house. Any hope of being rescued has left me and has been replaced with livid, boiling anger towards that creature, my warden that keeps me in this elaborate jail cell. He brings me food. He brings me things I need to survive. But that doesn't mean I look forward to seeing him at my window. It doesn't mean I play the few musical notes myself to call him to me and have a nice, casual conversation about the weather. I would rather that creature be as far away from me as physically possible.
For now, all I can do is sit here. Sit here and bottle up any hope that's even left inside of me as I close a physics book, not even needing a bookmark since I've read through it so many times that it feels as though the information is burned into my head. Placing it on the shelf, I straighten out a few of the books around it before I make my way around the corner and up the stairs to the huge window overlooking the city, taking the usual steps to reach the top.
I reach forward, pressing my open palm to the glass, a shiver running through me from the slight chill of it. The city is in its usual state; foggy as small specks of people make their way down the streets, rushing somewhere important. Crates go by on the skylines, and now and then, men swing by with what looks like oversized hooks, something I have yet to learn about, not written in my many books that I own.
Closing my eyes, the pads of my fingers pressing against the glass, all I can do is dream.