Tower Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
He sat alone, locked in the tower, alone with his thoughts. He had
been so many people with so many different lives. He had had purpose and
promise. He had written dreams and fought wars to make them come true. He had
been a voice of the people. He had been their oppressor. He had dreamt and
hoped and struggled for something grand and lasting. He had been vicious and
cruel and had killed more men than he could count. He had been a destroyer and
a creator. He had been a leader and a coward. He had walked countless paths and
yet they all led him to the same place – locked in this tower.
He was allowed no friends or family visitors. For all he knew the
outside world believed he was dead. He was allowed no comforts. The room was
stone. He wasn’t allowed a chair or a bed. He was given a pillow, but that was
so old and so worn it was hardly anything now. The room did have a window. Open
enough that he could see the world beyond, but too small so that he could not
throw himself out it. He supposed he could just batter himself against a wall
if it came to that, but he didn’t have that sort of resolve and was afraid of
the pain.
He was left mostly alone. Occasionally a former rival or victim
came, hoping to verbally punish or taunt him. He knew his station. He knew his
place. There was very little they could say to him that would truly hurt him.
And they apparently weren’t allowed to hurt him physically, so he was never too
worried. Sometimes he played along and acted hurt. Sometimes he played the part
of the acrimonious, or challenger, or arguer. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he
was playing a game or if he meant it. He had so little contact with people it
was hard to tell. When he was alone, all he had was the window to hurt him.
That he understood. That was obvious. These people, past or present, were ghosts
or illusions. They were hardly there, even when they were there. Or maybe he
had just learned to dull his senses and blur them out a little bit. He was able
to let his mind wander. They could yell and they could curse, but usually his
mind was somewhere else, way away.
How long had he been in the tower? He had no idea. Days came and
days went. He had counted them for a while, but lost interest. He had seen the
days over and over. He had seen seasons over and over. He knew years had come
and gone. His hair grew long. His nails grew long. His skin grew flabby and his
muscles weak. He knew time was passing.
They hadn’t allowed him a pen. That was all he had wanted early
on. He hadn’t written in years since they locked him away, but he had hoped he
would be allowed that simple pastime. He was not. He had no pen to record the
passing of time, or the passing of his thoughts, or all the stories that
occurred to him and were then lost in time. How many stories had been lost? Too
many to count.
He had lost count of the days that passed, but that didn’t bother
him. Losing track and forgetting his stories very nearly drove him mad.
He slept and woke and slept and woke. He looked out the window and
he looked at the wall. He contemplated death and he considered his life. He
knew he had dreams once. He was afraid to let him have them again. A locked
room was no place for a dream.
He slept and then he woke. And that was when he saw a familiar
face watching him. It wasn’t the man who brought him food or took away his
waste. It was a man that knew him when he was younger and when he mattered. It
was a man that knew him as a prophet and as a poison. The visitor had aged. His
face looked tired and old. He wondered if he had aged as well. Perhaps he was
just as old or worse. He had been without proper life for so long, he wondered
if he looked human at all.
“You and I were friends once.”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Have you come to kill me?”
“No.”
“Have you come to set me free?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand why you would want to see me.”
The visitor didn’t have an answer right away.
“I didn’t plan on ever visiting. I was content to let you rot and
die.”
“Then what happened?”
“You didn’t die fast enough.”
Both men chuckled at this.
“I felt. I began to feel. I began to wonder if perhaps things had
worked out unfairly.”
“I was given chances. I was given opportunities. I knew what was
in store. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Do what? Kill? Lead? Take blame? Give blame?”
“Any of it. All of it. We all committed so many sins and created
so much hurt and death and pain. I couldn’t be evil any more. I wanted to be decent
again. Better. I wanted to be good for possibly the first time in my life.”
“You see what good gets you? It gets you dead.”
“I beg to differ. Do I look dead to you?”
“You call this living? You look pretty dead.”
“I have a window. I have a view. I consider myself lucky.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Why are you here? To taunt me?”
“I don’t know. It’s been years. I thought there might be some
negotiating to be done?”
“Negotiating? What could we possibly negotiate here? I have
nothing. I am nothing. There is nothing left to take from me or to destroy of
my past. I have nothing to offer, and yet for some reason you all seem to want
me alive. So that must be my only value. We could negotiate the terms of my
death? If that would help you somehow, I’m sure I’m dead enough already that I
might be willing to assist you in the effort.”
“We built a kingdom. We built an empire. Your name will always
mean something. We could negotiate history and where your place will be in it.”
“I won’t help you or any of yours secure your place on my back and
my blood.”
“This is your chance. You can have a life again.”
“I already have everything I will ever need.”
“How can that possibly be true.”
“I have a room with a view. What more could you offer?”
“You have seriously low expectations.”
“Sometimes it’s best to settle for what you’ve already got.”
The prisoner blinked once, then twice, then closed his eyes for a
little longer than he meant to. When he opened his eyes again, his visitor was
gone, making him wonder if he had ever had a visitor at all.
He crawled across the floor and sat by the window. He looked out
across the kingdom that had once been his and dreamed a pleasant dream of
freedom. It was a sunny day with a nice breeze. Everything looked beautiful.
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