Page 9 of The Tower

I want to jam my hand right through the damn speaker panel, but I don’t. I also don’t say another word to Edward, which is bitchy since it’s not his fault, but I’m in an edgy mood and I just don’t give a fuck.

It occurs to me that I’m usually much more chill. The meds.

Makes sense. Why would my father want to fight with his bitchy daughter when he can keep her mellow?

Oh, God.

Is this really my life?

I stomp back up to my room, but since I’m in my bare feet, the stomping is less than satisfying. I’m about to flip on the television just to have the company of human voices, but for some reason, the campaign’s catchphrase echoes in my head: Make your dreams come true.

What about my dreams? The ones that will never become reality if I’m trapped in this suite, in this tower? If my father is feeding me drugs?

And what will happen if Father learns that I’m not taking them anymore? Because as of today, I am officially done.

He’ll put them in your food. Your water. If he figures out you’re defying him, you’ll never have a choice again.

For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe I’m spinning out. Maybe I really do need all these drugs, and if I stop taking them, the world will crash around me and swallow me whole.

But I have to try. I have to at least take a shot at making my dreams come true.

Back in my suite, I hurry to the far window, the one that opens onto the fire escape. Reed Tower is an architectural landmark, completed during the last great surge of Art Deco construction in Manhattan and renamed by my father. A monument to his ego disguised as respect for history.

The wrought iron fire escape is an original feature. Ornate. Sturdy. And a potential route to freedom.

It takes a moment for my trembling fingers to pull aside the drape and unlatch the window. Then another few moments as I take five deep breaths, rush to raise it, then take two protective steps back.

Cool night air rushes in, carrying the distant sounds of the city below—honking horns, fragments of music, and the constant ambient hum of millions of lives being lived beyond these walls.

I desperately want to be among them.

Do it.

I inch forward

Do it now.

I hold my breath, moving fast as I force one leg through the opening, then the other, until I’m sitting on the windowsill, the metal grating of the fire escape just inches below my feet and my heart pounding so hard my chest aches.

But I’m here. I’m halfway outside. Halfway into becoming part of the world.

All I have to do is step out.

One simple step.

Then I look down.

The city sprawls beneath me, a glittering void. My breathing accelerates, but I can’t get enough air. Spots dance before my eyes as the familiar grip of panic tightens around me.

Central Park stretches northward like a deep, dark, mouth, ready to consume me. Buildings rise on all sides, the emptiness between them vast and consuming.

The void whispers to me, the awful vastness ready to swallow me whole.

My body freezes. I’m locked in the space between imprisonment and freedom, utterly paralyzed.

You’re not strong enough for freedom.

My father’s words slither through my mind. I want to shake them off, but he’s right. I’m weak. I’m broken. I’m exactly what he’s made me.