Chapter Text
October 8th, 1981 ∙ Sweden
The night before his departure, Copia found himself perched on the cracked leather seat of his room’s solitary window. The breaks in the fabric were rough against his skin, but his appreciation for the view overrode any need to complain. Chin in hand, he watched the moon begin its gentle climb, casting long, spindly shadows across the lawn under its beam. Dim lights shone in odd intervals from the buildings that dotted the concourse below, mirroring the overhead glow of faint constellations. He could hear the muted honks of local birds as they arced their way through the purple sky in migratory patterns, and on the periphery, street lamps buzzed to life on cue. From his spot on high, he could see damn near everything: the entirety of his church, the edge of the city, and, most importantly, the winding road that stretched out beyond them
While there weren’t many compliments he could pay his abbey, the clerical labyrinth never failed to become utterly serene at dusk. He laced his arms around his knees for warmth, then squeezed his legs to his chest as he stared into the distance, quietly drinking in a world that would soon exist only in memory. His eyes flicked from the dull glow of stained glass up to twinkling heavens, then back to the fading hues of low-lying clouds.
It's beautiful like this, he thought. But only like this.
And he was right, oddly enough. Certain things are only attractive from a distance. While his church was definitely no exception, he knew he was still going to miss it. This sentiment, of course, hardly conveyed what he was actually feeling, but to be fair: describing, with any amount of accuracy, the nostalgia that forms in the wake of departure from the familiar to the unknown isn’t something that comes easily to most thirteen-year-olds. Could you feel homesick for a place that never felt like home? He wasn’t sure. The life he knew offered him so little, and yet, in almost every aspect of it, he’d managed to find something of just enough value to convince himself to stay alive.
An evening breeze drifted through the half-open sill, tickling his nose as it chased the day’s warmth toward the horizon. Winter was almost here, and it was getting colder by the minute. Copia turned up his collar and retreated further into the splintery wood of the backrest, clenching his jaw against the waves of goosebumps blossoming over his body. The southernmost dormitory’s unused corner office had been his home for the last seven years, but at no point had it felt like anything more than a ramshackle motel for an unwelcome guest. The door creaked, the mattress sagged, and the floorboards wiggled in place like a series of rotten teeth. Everything from the blankets on his bed to the towels in his bathroom were less comfortable than burlap, and the radiator required several firm kicks in order to limply rumble to life. Copia rarely cared to try and heat his makeshift room, so he reached instead for the quilt that decorated his disheveled nook and draped it over his shoulders.
Just as he began to feel comfortable again, a glare—bright and intrusive—flickered onto the glass from the light shining beneath his door. He let out a frustrated sigh, then gripped the rail and yanked it upwards. An open window would have been better than an obstructed window, but as per usual, the lower pane barely moved. The stupid thing had been broken since the day he moved in. It was another disappointing discovery, but also one he’d chosen to tolerate, as he was terrified of jeopardizing his access to the features of his room by whining about their performance. He was also exhausted of the dorm’s other occupants—whenever they happened to bump into him—commenting on how preoccupied he seemed with the world beyond their shared living space, but that was another story entirely.
Thankfully, none of that mattered now. Or at any rate, it wouldn't soon, and since he had nothing better to do than reminisce the evening away, he shrugged off his blanket and began to work the jamb apart from the sash with his fingers. Copia’s nails—scraggly and bit to the quick—were at the constant mercy of his nerves. Between school and choir, round-the-clock secret keeping, and the general existential horror of being a person, they never had much chance to grow. Still, he managed to strip away a considerable amount of gunk on his own. The pane looked better once the mold and excess sealant was removed, but it still locked up when asked to slide further. Copia frowned. He leaned over to access the cabinet space under his seat and rummaged around until his hand brushed with a small toolbox. After recovering a putty knife and a compact hammer, he set to work freeing the pane from its jambs. It was a slow process. Not difficult, per say, but slow, and his mind, as it so often did during such idle tasks, began to wander.
His subconscious mulled over the tangential grime in his own life, starting with the list of infractions he’d accumulated the previous week. Tying his hair up, then cutting it short. Repeatedly wearing the “incorrect” uniform. Spending more time with the rats that lived in his ceiling than the children who attended his school. Copia, it seemed, was never not in trouble. Despite this, he still wanted to be good. He longed to seamlessly blend into the society around him while upholding their expectations with ease. His numerous failings hadn’t stopped him from working toward this ideal, and if he was secure in anything, it was his ability to succeed academically. He boasted perfect grades, perfect attendance, and mastery of flute and piano. Neither poetry nor prose were difficult for him, and he could do both in Swedish, English, and Italian. Perhaps he’d never model perfect behavior, but if he could fireproof his worth with accolades and accomplishments that pushed the conventional boundaries of success, his fall from grace might be less agonizing.
This sort of thinking is nothing if not infamous for its ability to breed self-hatred, and the longer he entertained this concept, the harder it became for him to simply exist. Years of walking this same, emotionally exhaustive trail had worn a rut in Copia’s soul, leaving him trapped by walls of filth. He often felt stuck, but—unlike his window—there was no easy fix. Nobody was out there with a pair of boy-sized pliers, ready and willing to pluck him from his hell. He’d contemplated all of this numerous times before, but something about the unrelenting glare and the way the air grew thinner the longer he worked caused his anxiety to suddenly feel all-encompassing.
His limbs tingled with a familiar numbness as he swallowed waves of nausea crashing against the back of his throat. The room felt devoid of oxygen. Searching for relief, he lowered himself between the sill and the pane until pricks of cold air stung his sweat-soaked face. The coolness of the evening felt refreshing against his skin, but no matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t convince his lungs to expel their static. His thoughts became hazy, folding over themselves as the glass fogged from his ragged breathing. Something had to give. Knuckles white and brow furrowed, he began to drive the hammer against the knife with a series of succinct blows. The pale light, the grime, the condensation—all swirling together, warping his reflection until the world was a fun house mirror from which there was no escape. Layers between himself and the rest of existence. Layers too thick to simply wipe away. He drew back his arm as far as he could and slammed the hammer into the knife with all the strength he had left, simultaneously forcing the truth he had been running from out of his gut and into the open.
“Nobody is coming to save me!” He screamed.
The final blow was all it took. With a deafening crack, the casing shattered. The lower pane detached from its jambs, falling onto the person who’d freed it in a shower of splinters. The stifling atmosphere remained suffocating, but accidentally vocalizing the direness of his reality had caused something inside Copia to click. He steadied himself and gripped both sashes, then pulled the broken window out of its frame. With a soft pop, the rusted pivot slipped free, dropping, along with his resolve, onto the fabric beneath his shoes. He sniffled, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand before reaching down to examine the dislodged piece of metal. As he held it up to the moonlight, he smiled to himself. Such a funny roadblock of a thing. He gave his eyes a few cleansing blinks, then pocketed his prize.
The wind ruffled his wavy, chestnut hair as it filtered through the now vacant sill. He took breath after breath of cold night air, feeling his pulse gradually return to normal. It smelled so good outside. The silence was empty, but comfortable, punctuated only by the gentle creaking of bare branches knocking against each other in the breeze. The stars—no longer obscured—seemed practically ablaze: each individual glint like one of many undiscovered possibilities that awaited Copia just beyond his familiar horizon. His eyes swept the scene one final time, then slid shut. As far as last days go, this one was alright. He might have broken a window, but perhaps he was finally on the way to freeing his soul. A soft sigh passed his lips as he cleared the sadness from his throat, finding his voice once more.
“It’s no big deal,” he whispered. “I'll just have to save myself.”