It rose, high above me, made of brick. The wire, jagged like the teeth of some animal, threatened me from it’s home, the top. It reminded me of a crocodile (of which I had only heard; they died off long before I came into this world), and glittered, even though the Sun was obscured behind the smog that filled the air.
It had been years since I’d seen the Sun. The glowing orb had retreated from our sky years ago, long before THEY came in their metal birds, long before THEY had lowered their “men” down into our village, long before THEY separated me from my family, long before THEY had taken me away. I only vaguely remembered the Sun, shimmering through the broken windows in our home. It had left with the arrival of the smog, a sure sign that THEY had arrived.
We had long waited for this day, myself in particular. Countless hours had led us to this moment, our chance to shine, our chance to escape. A shout in some language (which I didn’t recognize, as it was probably American, and I only knew British) sounded from a man in the middle of the crowd. He adjusted his glasses then rushed the wall, his ragged jacket moving with each step, his sandal-bound feet noisily pounding on the cracked asphalt beneath us. The rest of us followed, en suite, the clatter of feet and raised voices screaming into the air.
The noon guards probably thought we were delirious or mad, at least until we raised our weapons of choice. Mallets, chisels, even (as in my case) grimy fingers were quickly put to work dismantling the masonry. I heard the frantic cries of our oppressors high above us, but our determination was too fierce for any alarm to defeat us.
I was one of the first through, one of the first to feel my bare feet in the mud. I dropped the powdered, broken brickwork from my hands, and heard it plop, ever so faintly, into the mud. I felt the water well up in my eyes. I felt it roll down my cheeks, turning brown from the dirt encrusted there, and dropping down onto the ground below. And then, I saw it.
Glittering in the distance, the smog from their factories far away from their homes stood the giant sky-towers of our oppressors, hundreds of meters tall. A road from the olden days, partially destroyed, led from their city in a straight line, to us, and to our camp. The rusted carcasses of vehicles lay on the road, littered as if a giant disposal van had tipped, jettisoning its cargo across the asphalt surface. One such box lay next to me, and I peered in. The remnants of a chair, burnt and decaying, stood on metal bars, and a small bag lay on the floor. I grabbed it, and pulled it open. Items fell out, including a flat, rectangular piece. I snatched this up, and stared. And I remembered. A picture. Looking back up at me, a family, long gone, smiled ghost smiles. Smiling in return, I looked at the figures, then around me, and stood by the side of the vehicle.
A cry and a burst of weapon fire sounded from the guardhouse broke my trance. I dropped the picture and turned towards the commotion. The man with glasses leaned from the window and raised a torn flag, draping it from the opening. He yelled, a cry of victory, and we yelled back. We had finally gained our freedom. We, who had been oppressed for years, were finally ready, finally able, to live.
