Chapter Text
The sky was real.
The sky, the clouds, the moon, the stars. It was all real. It had to have been real. That was what encapsulated the earth. That was what humans measured their limits by. Truman himself had done it time and time again. The sky’s the limit. Even still, humans pushed past that limitation. They flew. Hell, they soared.
So, yes. The sky had to have been real.
That and the sea.
The repetitive ripples. The crashing waves. The unforgiving, unrelenting roaring of a thunderous storm. The way it stared right back at Truman whenever he stared at it; almost mockingly. Almost daring him to try and rise above it. It sure as hell felt real; the day he lost his father. The rain pelted down on him from every direction. The soaked, miserable, tiny feeling he got whenever he curled in on himself; praying to God that the boat wouldn’t capsize. That he wouldn’t join his father, no matter how selfish that sounded. Truman was horrified, but he still wanted to survive.
And he had. He had survived. He’d grown up. The ocean had watched him.
Then, Truman fled.
He took to the sea; those same waters that had taken so much from him. Those same waters that seemed content on terrorizing him at every turn. The ocean was always in his line of sight. So was the sky. His fear no longer kept him rooted to the ground. His fear was the one thing driving him away; further and further away, deeper into the large expanse of water, where the sky and the sun and the clouds seemed to blur into the sea, tricking the eye so that they became one and the same. But soon, he’d pass the threshold. Soon, he’d break that illusion, and he’d be able to see land… more land. The most land he’d ever-
The boom of his boat tore through the sky.
Truman’s heart leaped into his throat. He froze.
No. Please, God, no.
He outstretched his hand, slow and trembling, and he touched the sky.
He had been too surprised to cry.
Truman had followed his hand along the line in the sky, taking careful steps, afraid that if he did one thing wrong, he’d end up right back on Seahaven Island. Being watched. Manipulated. Lied to.
When he found the stairs, he thought he must’ve entered into a dream. This was not possible. It couldn’t have been possible. But here he was, walking up the stairs in the sky, leading to a single blue door.
‘EXIT’ it read.
Truman felt like he was flying.
And then a voice spoke to him. A voice claiming to be the creator of Truman’s elaborate life. “Elaborate.” It was fake. Every bit of it. All fake. All except for him. And who was he, exactly? Truman Burbank? A name given to him by the all-seeing eye? The voice told him of his fears; spoke directly to him. Tried to convince him to stay.
Truman wouldn’t. He kept his back facing the sea and his front facing the darkness. Tears burned in his eyes. He wouldn’t stay a minute longer. Of course, he was afraid. He could feel his chest tightening at the thought of the world he was about to step into. The “real” world. But he would not stay.
No. He would not stay.
Truman had turned, then, flashing his signature grin to the nothingness. “In case I don’t see ya,” he’d announced, playing into the knowledge that he had a live audience, “good afternoon, good evening, and good night.”
He’d bowed. Something humble and committed; a goodbye to something that never should’ve been there in the first place.
Truman stepped through the door.
The sky had not been real. Nor had the sea.
But the darkness was real.
And it soon gave way to light.