Kepa looked up at a sky blue ceiling, flecks of grey peeking through peeling paint, and fell towards it. In the calm of the upwards descent, a voice spoke to him.
“Tell me a story.”
“What kind would you like? A story about heroes? Lovers? Ghosts? A story about beginnings or a story about endings? Something humorous or something more serious?”
“Tell me a story that’s true”.
“All stories are true”.
“Tell me a story about you”.
In the endless descent, Kepa breathed, feeling his lungs expand with every intake of breath, the cavity of his chest growing and then shrinking again as the warm air passed through his parted lips and escaped back out into the world.
As the air flowed out, he whispered his tale. He told the voice about his home in Old Town, about the middle aged women who gossiped on the stairwell of the tenement building, about the football league between the different floors, about his first goal and his first kiss- with Sam from the fourth floor who had been the goalkeeper on the opposing team.
He spoke about his first implant and how his father had threatened to throw him out of their two bedroom flat because of it- and eventually did after the third. He spoke of the summers outside under the Dome, and how, when he saw blue sky for the first time, he felt completely lost and so alone.
He described the gifting of his violin after his grandfather died, and how he was able to use it to grieve for the man who had been such a powerful influence on his life after he was kicked out of home. Not long afterwards, he did the same with his grandmother and mother.
In the infinite blue and grey there was a serene calm. There was no reason to hold anything back.
He began to talk about his initiation.