Tuesday, September 13, 2318
Yesterday I awoke and mindlessly fell into the same routine; wash, dress, wait by the door for the guards to escort me. But the doors never opened and I was never lead to the testing rooms. I stood there for nearly a half hour before lying back down to wait. My stomach growled impatience and I had to agree, it was nearly ten and no one had come.
I think one of the things I find most unsettling about my room is how at home I feel in it. How quickly it became my space. I lay there knowing no one would enter without knocking, that no one would sniff through my things while I was gone, that there were no cameras or listening devices to spy, much unlike the Domes or even the single housing in the city. It was as close to safe as I felt living with my father and it disturbed me.
I have abandoned his journal. The words that felt so important to memorialize with ink have fallen away under the words I uncover in his letter. I still use mine, obviously, but I feel the tinge of resentment that doing so was his urging and not my own desire. How can someone be mad at the dead? I feel terrible for it.
It got to the point that I couldn’t just lay in wait any longer. I had banged on the door once to get their attention, I could do it again. The first time my fist landed on the cold metal, the door whooshed open revealing an empty hallway beyond. I stood there stupidly, waiting I suppose, before sticking my head out with a tentative “Hello?” No one answered. Could something have happened? Could they have abandoned this place? My stomach was the only thing that answered.
I snuck into the hall and crept down the long corridor. My feet took me back along the same paths the guards had led me down but before they made that decisive turn right to the sterile rooms, they headed left. I knew where they were going and urged them along. It might be my only opportunity.
The room was empty which was a relief. I hurried to the first shelf, trying not to be distracted, and ran my finger along the dusty edge. I was halfway around the room before I found it. J.L. Monroe My breath hitched in my throat, there were dozens of them. Gingerly, I pulled one thick tome from the shelf, a pang vibrated in my heart. These were his words. These were things he wrote about before he ever knew me. I devoured the pages, there was so much here he never told me, never taught to me. My hunger was long forgotten as I feasted on his words.
“Your father was a brilliant man.” I knew the voice that pulled me from obsession.
“He was.” There wasn’t any denying that, not after the rows of books that still proclaimed it. “I didn’t know.”
“He didn’t want you to.” Grifkin pulled a chair up to mine and settled himself down as if for a long stay.
“I don’t understand. I didn’t think he kept anything from me.” In my own ears I sounded childish.
“Every parent keeps things from their child, it’s the way of things.” He waved a hand as though waving away my foolishness.
“What is this place? What do you do here that my father was so important.” I pulled my legs under me, resting on the arm of the big fluffy chair. I didn’t expect him to answer, no one had answered me thus far but my eyes widened as he began talking. A phrase took form inside my head and wouldn’t be released. As I lay in bed that night they replayed, over and over, a thousand million times making my heart fly.
“This will be the place the Earth is reborn.”