In the Service [WORK IN PROGRESS]

Prologue

Prologue

Throughout the entire consultation, Mr. Foster had been clutching his old hat, playing nervously with the frayed edges as the large, plump man wearing a fancy business suit sat in front of him and explained his conditions and requirements. But now, the hat lay carelessly at the corner of the desk as a long, thick piece of golden parchment was slid towards Mr. Foster and a black feather pen pressed violently into his rough, calloused hand. He sat frozen, staring blankly at the document. His hands began to shake and beads of sweat began to form on the back of his neck.

He shouldn't be here. He should be at work, helping the boys shovel coal into the belly of the big iron beast. He should be at the tavern, downing more beers than he could stand and throwing away what little money they had to bet on which man could take more punches. He should be at home, having leftovers with his family and lying about how good it tasted to cheer up the missus. He should be anywhere but here.

Mr. Foster flinched as a soft, delicate hand folded around his. He turned to his wife, who was wide-eyed and trembling, her tawny hair frazzled and breaking loose of it's bun. He noticed that her dress was torn at the sleeve and the fabric was faded. He noticed that her shoes were muddy and the soles were falling apart. He noticed that she no longer wore jewelry or powder on her face. He looked down at the gold band around her finger, with a tiny sliver of a diamond displayed at the center.

"Well, Mr. Foster? I ain't got all day to be waitin' on ya."

He turned back to the plump businessman, then looked down at the thick, golden parchment. No, he couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't hand over his entire life to this pompous jackass. How could he? After everything he'd worked for? He shook his head and set the pen down on the desk. The businessman shrugged, reaching for the document.

"No, wait," Mrs. Foster pleaded, and the businessman froze, his arm outstretched. She took her husband's face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Please, Edward," she cried, tears forming along the rim of her eyelids. "We don't have a choice."

Mr. Foster looked at his wife, then shifted his gaze to the floor. He sighed and pushed her away before gingerly picking up the feather pen and dabbing it in the ink jar. The businessman smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth, and he pushed the contract closer.

"Lord, forgive me," Mr. Foster whispered, and he signed his name in thick, black ink.