My home looks drab from the outside. The flowers in the garden dead and the paint dull and scratched. All the windows' are closed and have never been opened, at least not whilst I've been alive. My father says he has his reasons, but I don't believe him. I don't know how long its been like this, this is all I remember, my father never allows me to talk about it, he says it's forbidden, but forbidden by who. Sometimes I think it's down to him,that he makes the rules, but at night I catch him, glimpsing out of the window after slowly pulling a tiny part of the curtain back. That's what makes me think again, the look of longing written all over his face, makes me believe that he wants it just as much as I do. Freedom.
As time ticks by, I stare at my book in front of me. It's not going in, I'm too busy thinking about collection day. Collection day is the day I wonder the most. When the men deliver our weekly shopping through the hatch. Heavily armed and robot like, they push our tray into our home and without another movement, they turn and march toward the next house repeating the same thing. I can remember when I was six, I poked my head around the curtain, to see who was delivering our food. I wondered why they were wearing shields to cover up their bodies and a gun placed in each one of their arms. Father caught me and scolded me though, enough to keep me from doing it again, but I can still picture them in my mind. Broad and stern looking, what's out there, something so dangerous nobody is allowed to leave their homes, so dangerous that the men who are allowed out are heavily armed and built like weight lifters.
The familiar bang sounds and wakes me from my daze. I lift my feet and walk towards the hatch. I catch the tray and pull it forward as the men push it in. We only receive enough food for two people, which is fair I suppose, It's only me and my father. I've never met my mother, father says she died when I was born and refuses to tell me anything else. We don't talk much, about anything. It sometimes feels like it's just me, alone, my father hardly ever comes out of his bedroom, only for meal times and to study. His study room is along the hall and three doors down from the hatch. It's my favourite room in the house, but I don't spend much time there. I have to be careful in case he catches me, another thing I'm not allowed to do. But things will get better. I dream every night about travelling outside and exploring the Earth, sometimes it feels so real that I believe it will happen, someday it will, it has to.