It was so steep, almost a 90-degree climb uphill, impossible to climb by foot.
We were in a cable-car like shuttle bus, transported up like lamb to the slaughter. The multitudes of floors and deathly silent, cold window panes witnessed the latest set of contestants - or rather, prisoners. Before the hill - if it could even be called a 'hill' for how sheer it was - lay the remnants of a huge concrete carpark, resembling those seen in Australian suburban shopping centres, layers of grey floors supported by sturdy concrete pillars, concrete walls boasting of graffiti, mold, and minimal plant growth. Sunlight barely reached most of the walled corners. In one of those concrete wall corners, there was a flurry of concrete stairs going up, up to the next floor where there'd be one of those intersections between glass-box lift entrances and the shadowed, concrete emergency exit staircases, always poorly lit and tucked just out of sight, if not for the telltale neon-green exit signs in the corner. One of those platforms held a majestic glass lift that could room one of the university's many studios, with one glass wall showing dwarfing views of the busy highway outside, another facing the glass-study rooms containing rows upon rows of slender, white study desks akin to high school engineering benches. Everywhere was accented with the university's prestigious Russian violet, woven into the library carpets, etched artfully along ceilings and lining walls like a uniform belt. The front of the elevator, a mystery, as everyone is busy observing the other walls. Left in is a massive mirror whose placement is designed like a luxurious clothing store's laneway of the fitting rooms.
Polished women in fancy blazers, men in suits with ties, but always just one. Neither too many, nor too little to luxuriate in secrecy in this place.
Everywhere feels surveilled. But the intent is unclear.
One particular room had orange accents, on top of their prevalent purple. This is where our story begins.
We lined up, about 30 of us, enough to make up a regular Australian class. Except this wasn't a class. It felt more like a sport, where we were the prey, hunted by predators yet to be discovered.
The goal was never said, but it seemed self-explanatory enough: to escape the tower. And so, we worked in groups, each finding our own mates to look after.
Each passing day, hour, or moment in time - it was hard to tell - we would unknowingly be shift higher up the never-ending tower. Whatever fate held for us at the top was as foreign as the darkened layers beneath us. It seemed to prefer being left untouched. Too bad we were no fools, we would fight when it came to our lives.
Somehow, we were all always kept busy; tasks were laid everywhere and nowhere at once, it was infuriating in the least as it distracted everyone from their ultimate goal. Slowly though, I realised an opening. Risky, tantalising but definitely viable. There was a gap we could leap through from inside the elevator. A place where no human should ever go unless they knew what they were doing.
Afterall, it was just glass everywhere, wasn't it? We could see it the whole time, the answer laid in the open. But openness necessitates secrecy, just as survival only goes to the best.
And so began the late nights, where we'd creep along the elevator's base, slowly making our way down as we mentally mapped each layer's floorplans, noting all the dips and hops in preparation of a future escape with pursuers coming after us.
Oh, if it were so whimsical a child could outsmart the system! Then came the transactions, strange, enchanting and passionate. It moves with you, through you, takes from you. You learn to stay put, accept with a rigour unmatched in your previous known reality. It is an entirely new art to stay still, a skill developed through silent tears, held breath, and eyes tightly squeezed shut.
It is then you realise people are disappearing. There are few left - the quiet ones, the darkened shadows that blur past and when you look, they are already gone. It gets lonely. But the nights remain unlonely, almost preferential to the gloomy, halls of filtered daylight.
You begin to wonder, is it still worth fighting? Doesn't it feel better to succumb to this bittersweet agony in the dark than to fumble around in an ever-colder, quieter world?
Perhaps. Though what good is it to stay still in time forever, when you could rush up in life and enjoy true sunlight again, to feel the breeze tickle your face? To watch your loved one smile at your joke, to experience the joys of competition with those around you?
It is hard to believe how long has passed. The fickle burning flame of escape, justice, is glowing weaker by the second. Yet one thing is clear: this is no way to live. Even the moth to the flame will soon be left with no flame.
I must get out.