Short Stories

Faultless

 His hand was covered by only a thick, dirty glove, the other exposed to the dangerously still air. She noticed the holes edging their way from one fingertip to another on the worn mitt. Though she knew why, she looked at the the naked hand, who was crimson and yellow and brown all mixed together in blistered flesh and spilled blood and the agony of disease ridden dirt caked into those opened wounds. His clothing was nothing but rags. She guessed his shirt was once white, yet now the purity of it was tarnished by holes and mud. His pants were much too short, displaying blood stained, skinny legs. No shoes were there to protect his feet, proven by the scarred toes, some mangled and broken. She forced herself to look at his long, hollow face. His lips were covered in the same dirt that was slowly infecting his abrasions. She knew his skin must have once been white like his shirt, but she couldn't will herself to see past the filth anymore. His green eyes showed no soul. Nothing. She supposed this was helped by the shadow his messy red hair produced. Through all this, she could not will herself to pity the boy.

Her hands were no better. Though he saw no evidence of dirt or gloves on the girl, he could see the dried blood and calluses covering her delicate fingers and palms. Her tattered blue dress squeezed her chest and stomach, baring many small holes that had only been put together with breaking thread. He saw brown boots covering her feet, and felt a pang of jealousy within himself. Looking at her gaunt face, this envy melted away. Her thick black hair was piled in a messy bun atop her head, thin strands escaping to wave freely with the breeze wafting off the canal. Her intense brown eyes bore into him.

"You," she whispered, her voice as broken as her eyes seemed. She knew one when she saw one. He had worked there, too... before he died, that is.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" he spoke uncertainly, unused to women stopping him on the street.

"Canal digger," she spat, ignoring his question.

"Mill girl," he responded sharply. Despite her beauty, he knew she was not one to love easily.

"Tell me," she started boldly, not allowing herself to be afraid of a raggedy Irish boy. "did you mean to?"

"Mean to what, exactly?" he noticed her Italian accent as he spoke in his own Irish lilt.

"Too deep, too strong..." she took a steadying breath. "It broke, you know."

"What are you talking about?" he replied in a vexed tone.

She could still remember the noise in the tight room, the rocking of the floor beneath her feet. She'd undergo all the cotton falling into her lungs like poisoned snow all over again to bring him back. Finally, she spoke again. "The mill, stupid boy."

He paused, taken aback by her sudden insult. "Yes," he said conclusively. "I did know one broke. I suppose you worked there?"

She nearly made a very unladylike sound in her throat, but held herself back. "I did. Do you know what your stupidity cost to me?"

"No, but I suppose you're going to tell me..." he muttered the last part, careful to not infuriate the mill girl further.

"He's dead, I'll have you know," she said. He'd looked like this boy. He'd had brighter eyes, though, and darker hair. He'd been younger. This boy should have died, She thought in spite of herself. Not my brother. Not Operaio.

He stared at her in stunned silence. The air became toxic to him again, too heavy for his lungs to breathe in. "Who? What..." he paused, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to know. "What happened?"

"My pay dove lower and lower, thanks to you. They had to repair it, and that meant money. Money runs America. I'm sure you know that." she stared at him. He didn't understand. "I couldn't feed him, my little brother. You killed him. Monster!" she cried in agony, not thinking. Her anger melted down to its purest form; pain. A tear slid down her dirty cheek. "He's dead because of you."

He watched the salty tear travel slowly down her cheek. "They made me. They told me what to do." he held out his hand. "I apologize for your brother's death."

She looked at his hand, outstretched to her. Though she knew it indecent, she grasped his hand in her own.. A part of her wanted to crush every bone in that canal digger's hand, but a larger part wanted her brother's soul to rest. She pulled him to her, and hugged him fiercely.

He stood, terrified for a moment of this outrageous act of affection from the girl who'd just called him a monster. In a moment, though, he found he was returning this act, one hand still clasped tightly in her's. Though it may not have been the most comfortable situation, he knew this to be helping them both. They both just wanted a break for a while, a break from America's odd rules and regulations.

She knew, back home, this would never be allowed. But she wasn't at home, was she? She was in America, a land of money and grief and power. "I forgive you..." she spoke as quietly and as gently as she had to her brother as he'd fallen sick.

In that moment, they both found something: neither of them were to blame. For a few precious seconds, they were faultless... Just two destinies, two hands, come together for a little while in a wild, greedy, corrupt world.