Year 6 (First Draft) #Wattys2016

-Chapter 1-

  Year 6. For some it changes their lives, but for the others like myself who aren’t so fortunate, it ruins ours. I can’t even remember what my life was like before Year 6. Who was I? What was I like? There is nobody around who can tell me.

  I would love to say that my story is pleasant, but at the moment it is not. I can’t see it getting better either.

  I trudge down my street, watching for muddy puddles. The mud squishes under my worn leather boots even though I have taken every precaution to avoid them. I watch as citizens scramble along the barren alleys, their faces streaked with dirt and grime. My stomach lurches from the smell of rotting garbage, the smell invading my senses.

  It really isn’t fair. Not any of it.

  I make my way back onto the main street, watching as business men and their assistants bustle past the alleys, hoping to avoid Beggars. Them in their crisp, clean suits, me in my torn jeans and tank top. How ironic.

  Nobody even looks in my direction as I pass by, but why would they? I’m no different than any of the other people living in the dumpy streets.

  My mind settles on a picture of my family living in some nice clean house somewhere far away from me. If you are Abandoned, the Government relocates your family. I am not allowed to ask where to. I’m not even allowed to make a call. I can only wonder.

  Did my little brother Paul, pass Year 6? Or is he on the streets as well, our parents relocated to a new house in some new city? The what-ifs are what kill me, leaving me feeling empty. I was denied a normal life, and I was only six years old. The thought makes a wave of emotions run through my head, swirling all my thoughts around until they are an overwhelming jumble.

  I hear the hubbub of early morning as I walk along Pine Street, turning left to go down another alley. The Beggars are already setting up their blankets to sit on, and getting out their props. Some beg just by sitting, palm’s outstretched. Others prepare little shows. One old man is clutching a battered violin case to his chest, fiddling with the clasp that opens it. Part of me wants to help him, but common sense steps in. The man will ask for money. I only have ten dollars that I have scrounged up this week. I can’t help him in the way that he needs.

  The alley bustles with life, in a strange ironic way. Men and women running about, looking for a place to beg, some being brave enough to venture out onto the main street. Children being dragged here and there to finish small chores for their parents. Someone shouts that they have already earned a dollar, and others grumble knowing that is one less dollar for them. The Beggars are lucky if they get any money a day. People aren’t too fond of Beggars, and I can’t blame them. They are conniving people who will steal and cheat to get what they want. I’m honored to be one of them.

  It may sound crazy, but I wouldn’t want to go back to my old life, even if I got the chance. Here, I don’t have half as many rules as I once did. Of course there are some rules we must follow on the streets. Fighting is forbidden. Stealing is forbidden. Making contact with family is forbidden.

  Rules are a consistent part of our lives, no matter where we are, or the lives we live. I may be on the street, but I still have rules. Rules I must follow. If I don’t, the Government will take me, lock me away, torture me. Okay, well the torturing thing is just an educated guess, I really don’t know what they do once they take an Abandoned prisoner.

  I take a seat on an old dumpster, pulling myself up. I get some dirty looks from some of the Beggars nearby, most likely because they had decided to use this dumpster for their begging. I just shrug, pulling my LR-5 out of my pocket. I am the only Beggar who owns one, but that’s only because I grabbed it and shoved it under my coat when the Government took me away. The screen of my little LR-5 is cracked and flickers sometimes, but it has served its purpose. I was able to talk to Paul four years ago. We could barely understand each other, but we were both comforted by the thought that the other was talking on the other side of the screen.

  My LR-5 vibrates, sending a tingle up my fingers.

  NEWS: PRISONER ESCAPED--- NOW ON THE STREETS--- KANE PORTER--- LETHAL--- IF SEEN--- REPORT TO GOVERNMENT AGENT IN NEAREST GOVERNMENT BUNKER--- PRISONER ESCAPED--- NOW ON THE STREETS--- KANE PORTER---

  I stop reading when I realize it is the same message being repeated again. Over, and over. The broadcast has been coming every day now for the last week. Whoever Kane Porter is, the Government wants him back something awful, and will do whatever it takes to get him back.

  A thought strikes me, and a surge of hope courses through me. Would they really do anything to get him back?

  I pull up the notepad on my LR-5 and begin typing.

  ENTRY 309

  Find Kane Porter.

  Give him to the Government.

  Ask to live with my family.

  If they really want Kane Porter, they’ll do what I say.

  I look at the plan.

  Could that really work? Would they let me back in if I brought them the person they want the most? I smile, pressing the SAVE button.

  There’s only one way to find out.

A/N HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!