A Good Day to Kill

Hey, everyone!! If you're reading this I just want to say thanks, it means a lot :)

This is the first full story I've every published, and I'm kinda really nervous. This was/is the story I wrote for English class, and that's why it seems kinda rushed . . . we only had 12 pages!! (The story appears on Wattpad as 6, though, I think.) Also, I have to re-write the ending, I know ;)

Any constructive critisism and all that stuff is appreciated!! :)

Thanks!! And enjoy!! :)

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As evening approaches, so does heavy, moist air, bringing with it the pungent odour of burning chemicals and the distinct threat of rain. I shiver despite the warm breeze, and secure my ragged coat more firmly around my shoulders.

I trudge wearily up my street, past crumbling, dilapidated factories and the ruins of abandoned dwellings before I make it to my house. A squat, one-store building, lovingly fashioned out of cracked cobbles and rubble: my home. I yank open the front door and make my way into the kitchen, carelessly slinging my jacket over the back of a chair before I drop myself into it, exhausted.

Every day, it's the same deal. I wake up at the crack of dawn, make the arduous journey to the Pond, the only source of public freshwater within 56 kilometers, and compete with hundreds of people for water to bring home to my family.

Approximately 75 years ago, Earth's natural resources began to disappear due to over population and the increase of human consumption. Essential resources like water, coal, and oil were used up at an alarming rate. The scarcity of these resources caused many companies, governments, and other influential people with money to privatize them in order to ensure that they would never run out, leaving everyone else struggling to find ways to survive without them. We call this the Greater Depression.

After my twin brother died from drinking contaminated water three years ago, I began feeling the need to do something about my predicament, about the predicament of all those who cannot afford these crucial resources; and now that I am old enough to carry the responsibility of providing for my remaining family, I feel more abused by these companies than ever.

However, even though I know that I want to fix our situation, I can't figure out how. I'm just a helpless 14-year-old girl who can't even go to bed past eleven o'clock, let alone have what it takes to stand up to the rich.

I sit on the chair and let all these thoughts run through my head when the petite figure of a woman appears in the doorway, holding a sewing needle and a pair of tattered socks.

"Oh, Jamie, honey, you look terrible," says my mother. I shrug it off.

"I'm fine, mom," I insist. "Just tired, that's all."

I can tell she's not convinced.

Clucking her tongue sympathetically, she comes and sits down in the empty chair beside me. "Really, something is wrong. Just tell me. And don't you dare think of lying because, trust me, I'll know."

My mother looks at me expectantly, demanding an answer, and I sigh. I know she will sympathize with me, but it's not like she can do anything to help.

"I hate having to struggle to collect all of the resources that we need everyday!" I exclaim. "All of them should be human rights and available to everyone, not just the people who can afford it! I want to be able to do things with my life, to actually live it, and here I am slaving away in order to give us enough to live on! It's just not fair!"

My mother's eyes are full of sympathy and tenderness as she looks at me and says, "I know, Jamie, I know. I wish there was something we can do, but . . ." she trails off. "We will just have to try our very best to make do," she finishes.