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The lid swung upwards, and the booby-trap was triggered. There was a short and low burst of sound, then a hissing, and clouds of smoky stuff billowed out of the crate, covering the surrounding area. Reg was far enough away to avoid it, but still held his breath in case it was blown his way. He was afraid it was a toxic poison. Fortunately what wind there was, was blowing in the opposite direction, and the gaseous cloud dissipated over next door’s garden. Reg hoped that with it being winter, no-one was outside in that garden. When most had disappeared, Reg ventured closer. There he caught a whiff of what the poison had been: tear gas. Even at low concentration, it made his eyes water, so he shouted to the house: “Tear gas! Keep the door and windows closed meantime.” Feeling his eyes nipping, Reg kept well away from the box, blinking to relieve the symptoms. He waited for ten minutes or so, then sidled to the back door and opened it, slipping in quickly before closing it again. Through. I lie here, staring up. And up. And up. I’ve become so familiar with the smooth fabric over my head, shielding me from those tears that fall down, full of pity for what I’ve become. The slick, cool feeling as my hand brushes against it…the canvas is turquoise. It loves to look down at me, almost as if asking if I can remember the sky. I often wonder if I do remember the sky. I can’t help but feel like the sky was something that existed before this world. It was something to be enjoyed, like the warm waves of summertime sun, running through the dew-stained grass, laughing to yourself and looking left and right and back and forth. And up. The turquoise canvas is the closest thing I know that looks like blue skies. It’s soft, almost reflexive it its kindness. Blue skies mean no harm, they are protectors. I almost not dare to think reach back into my memories, because with blue skies comes Sawyer, and… Sawyer. I promised myself that Sawyer would stay gone. He’s the reason I’m trapped.
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