I’ve lived next to the border my whole life, and I’ve always questioned why
it’s there. I once asked my parents what was on the other side, but they
always started to shiver, and couldn’t answer me. I continued to press as I
grew older, never asking the same person twice, and they all gave me the
same non-response. They were afraid of going over there, but could
apparently not vocalize why. I once wrote a letter to a friend, asking them
to pick a random time in the future, and ask me what I thought was on the
other side. Perhaps being the answerer felt different than being the asker.
Two years passed before I gave up. I’m sure she got the letter, and I’m sure
my words were enough to scare her into forgetting she had ever read it. I
feel fine. It looks so normal over there. We have trees, they have trees.
Animals make their noises over here, as they do over there. How could it
possibly be so special that we’re not even allowed to so much as talk about
it? I fish on the bank all the time, but even when I’m alone, someone will
run out and scream at me if I wade in the water too far. It’s like nearing
the center sounds some kind of alarm that everyone can hear but me. I saved
up all my money for years until I could buy a spyglass to get a better look,
but all I can see through it are trees. The forest is too dense, no matter
if I go up or down the river. I have become an adult today, and I’ve
resolved to finally do something to satisfy my curiosity. I’m sure someone
will try to stop me from going, as they always do, but now I have a little
more agency. Now I can choose to ignore them. I pack some provisions, and
head out in the middle of the night.
I’ve never liked following rules, or limiting myself to where people think I
should be. I know that the other side of the river is safe. If I can just
get over there, and come back, that will prove it to everyone else. I just
have to figure out how. The farthest I’ve gone is about a quarter of the way
there, and the floor had already started to drop. It’s possible—likely,
even—that I will not be able to reach the bottom. I can’t swim, of course.
The nearest lake is in the next village over, so no one thought to teach me.
I think I can float, so maybe what I’ll do is just move my arms a bunch
until I get close enough to stand again. I imagine it doesn’t matter exactly
where on the other side I walk out. It’s all forbidden, according to the
others. I step into the water, and freeze for a moment, afraid that someone
will run out and scream again. They don’t usually do it this soon, but I’m
still worried. It shouldn’t matter. I’m doing this, whether they like it or
not, so I better just get on with it. I’m more than a quarter way there, and
standing on my tippy-toes. Instinct kicks in, and I think I kind of am
swimming. I wouldn’t win any races like I hear about them doing on the big
lake that’s a two-day journey from here, but I’m surviving. I’m halfway
there now, and so proud of myself. Suddenly, my arm runs into something.
It’s smooth and hard, and it’s not just in the water. It feels like a wall,
except I can’t see anything. I just see the river, and the forest behind it.
I tap on it first, but then I start to pound. Harder and harder until it
changes. The forest and the sky flicker, almost like torchlight, giving me
glimpses of this invisible barrier. I keep striking it, eventually realizing
that it’s not invisible at all. The wall is what’s here. It’s everything
else that’s an illusion. There is no other side of the river. We’ve been
trapped in some kind of giant prison this entire time. Now there’s only one
thing left for me to do. I continue to float down the river, hoping to find
an opening through the border.
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