The Moon Dwellers

In the dark, I bend my legs and flex them at the knees a few times, trying to get some feeling back. My eyes are quickly adjusting to the dark and I can just make out the faint outline of the slot in the door. I close my eyes but sleep continues to evade me.

As a kid, I also read books about space travel. About what it would be like to live somewhere other than earth. Like the moon, for example. In my books I saw pictures of the moon, looking all bright and desolate in the night sky, surrounded by twinkling stars and wispy clouds. Weird that we’re called moon dwellers. We’re still stuck on earth. Well, not on earth so much as in it, at least a mile below the deadly surface. I’m not sure who the idiot was who decided to call us moon dwellers, but I’d guess he or she was a sun dweller. It seems like most of the dumb ideas come from them. In school they told us that the logic behind the names is related to how bright each light source appears in the sky. For example, the sun appears the brightest—at least that’s what we’re told and how it looks in the pictures—and therefore, those nearest to the surface should be called sun dwellers. We are next and are like the moon, second brightest. At the bottom, of course, are the star dwellers, miles from the earth’s surface. I also heard that there are some references to this kind of thing in the Bible, too, but I’ve never read it so I’m not sure if it is true. Bottom line: I think the names are stupid.

I’d prefer them to be called Deep, Deeper, and Deepest.

No matter how they spin things, it’s a class system, one predicated on those at the top being worth more than those at the bottom. My grandmother said the distinctions between the classes are more obvious in our world, but that it had been the same when people lived above the earth, only no one talked about it as much.

Finally, I fall asleep.

He touches me. His fingers are as gentle as feathers, but without the tickle, lingering on my knees before moving to my hips. Despite their softness, his hands are strong, firm, like they could crush stone with a single squeeze.

I am glad I don’t need to talk to him, don’t need to open my mouth and bumble through an awkward introduction, one that will inevitably end with my foot in my mouth.

Words aren’t necessary. Actions say so much more.

His midnight-blue eyes never leave mine, and although I feel embarrassed by the attention, I don’t look away. Pulling me closer, he touches my hair, opening his fingers like the teeth in a comb. His lips are so close I can feel his hot exhalations meeting my own, swirling together, mixing.

* * *

I wake up. It’s still dark, but only because the lights are out, and underground it’s always dark if the lights are out. I can sense that day has arrived. That I’ve made it through another night. Surprisingly, I feel well rested. Which is very unusual. I can’t remember even one morning in the Pen when I felt like I had a satisfying sleep.

I sigh, remembering my dream. I always remember my dreams. It’s a blessing and a curse. When I was young I used to have terrible nightmares about drowning. My dad said it was because I’d nearly drowned when I was really little. I was just a toddler, doing what toddlers do best: wandering off and getting into trouble. Anyway, I fell into a shallow well, one of the many that provide water to our subchapter. Luckily, someone heard me scream when I fell, and managed to ride the bucket down and then keep me afloat until someone else could pull us up. I have no memory of the actual event, but used to relive the feeling of the water swarming around me, threatening to suck the life out of me, on an almost nightly basis.

I haven’t had a drowning dream for a while now—for that I’m thankful.

My latest dream has me puzzled. Even when I had a crush on a guy in school, I didn’t dream about him, thank God. To be honest, I feel kind of silly, like I am just another obsessed fan of Tristan’s. I feel like slapping myself across the face, and usually I would, but I am too busy trying to get the dream back into my mind.

Although I am awake now, my body still feels a bit tingly, almost as if his hands are still on me, his lips only inches away from mine. I shiver in the dark.

The lights come on and the computer voice comes over the speaker. “Good morning. All guests may now exit their rooms for the day,”—I hear the click of the lock on my door—“breakfast will be served in the cafeteria.” As if it would be served anywhere else.

The dream vanishes and I lie in bed for a few minutes, blinking, trying to get it back. I can’t. It is like the dream has been permanently deleted from my memory. Logically, I know what the dream was about, but I can’t seem to remember the feelings from it. All I know is that it felt good—maybe better than anything I’ve ever felt before. I wonder if it’s what sex will feel like.

Some kids at my old school have already had sex, even though it is strictly forbidden until marriage. I mean, the lecturers taught us about it, and how it is used for procreation and everything, but never about how it will feel. We learn that on our own, some by doing it, and others by listening to kids who’ve done it talk about it. I’ve never really thought much about it until now. Tristan.

I sigh again, this time not because I remember the dream, but because I forget it. I swing my legs over the bed and force myself up. Some days I feel like staying in bed all day, but that is not permitted. One of the stewards—their name for prison guards—will eventually come and make me leave my cell, by force if necessary. It isn’t worth the hassle.

I go through my morning routine—use the “bathroom,” do a few stretches, feel sorry for myself—and then exit my “room.” First stop is the washroom. To my surprise, I find myself hoping—almost wishing—that Tawni will be in there. It feels weird looking forward to seeing someone again. Especially someone in the Pen. All the people I usually want to see are on the outside. Like my sister. And my parents. And now Tristan.

The washroom has a few toilets, but I prefer the hole in my floor, because none of the stalls have doors. There are no mirrors—no one cares about their appearance in the Pen—and a simple trough-style basin covers one whole wall.

A bunch of girls are already using the trough: washing their faces, combing their hair with their fingers—almost the way Tristan had in my dream—brushing their teeth. The Pen management provides loads of crappy, gritty toothpaste, but no toothbrushes, so we’re forced to use our fingers. I scan the line of girls, looking for Tawni’s long, white hair, streaked by blue on one side.

She isn’t here.

I feel a bump from behind as another girl pushes past me and into the washroom. “Move it,” she says. Evidently I’m standing in the doorway. Even still, a simple “Excuse me” would’ve done the trick. Ahh, life in the Pen—less fun than sex, or so I suspect.

I go to work on my teeth, rubbing hard with my index finger to clean off the stale saliva still inhabiting my mouth. I rinse my mouth out with a swish of brown water from the rusty faucet. I can never understand why all the water in the Pen is brown. It’s like they add dirt to it or something. Most of the water in the Moon Realm—or at least our subchapter—is clear, having been filtered naturally as it flows through the rocky tu

I skip a shower, because I’m really not in the mood to be naked in front of a bunch of other girls—there are no private showers in this hotel. Plus, we run out of hot water in about two minutes, so unless you are the first one in, you have to shiver under the cold, drippy showerhead. Needless to say, I’ve reduced my standards on hygiene to about two showers a week, and quick ones at that. No one really notices the smell, though, because we all smell equally nasty. Freshly showered, smelling like soap, you’d actually stick out like a clown at a funeral.