The Lockup

Chapter One - 3642 AE

             I heard shouting – practically screeching – coming from the opposite side of the house. I knew mom and dad never agreed with everything, which caused them to not get along very well. Who could get along with all of the stress that everyone seemed to have? These things called taxes – though they are more like your key to not being killed – have been being raised higher and higher. Mom said that they were just developing the city more and that I shouldn't worry. To make matters worse, the days have become shorter and shorter over time as the nights become longer for a reason I don't know. Even if I did know, I probably wouldn't understand.

            My parents always seemed to have a favorite topic to argue about. Survival of the fittest. Dad had been trying to persuade mom to leave Dylan and I on the streets for the Imposers to come along and pick up. Dylan was my younger brother. My father argued that the Workhouses that powered the nearby, remaining cities would be glad to add two healthy and able working bodies to their collection of... Workers. My mom would retort that they were more like slaves. She believed that the two of them could care for us just fine.

            I could just tell that their argument was worse than usual. Dad's voice increasingly became louder and angrier. Mom screeched back in a broken, cracked voice that was nothing at all like her compassionate, caring self. It was like a weak woman who was not giving up on a battle she knew that she had lost long ago.

            Suddenly, I heard a loud crack resonate through the house. Mom, crying as dad stormed from the opposite side of the house. His footsteps thudded but stopped when they receded into his bedroom. He then continued stomping out of the house with a leather bag that was filled with who knows what. Without sparing me a second glance other than to sneer at me, he walked right past me. He knocked over a small cup of water onto a picture I was drawing on fabric using charcoal from the fireplace. Dad slammed the front door on his way out, leaving me to stare at the smears of my artwork.

            My beautiful drawing of my dark haired, small nosed, and proud mother, smiling as usual. It was smeared... Blackened water rolled off of the table and stained my baggy, worn, and faded jeans. Mom always told me how my art was amazing, and not just for a 7-year-old. Long ago, in the Forgotten Times, I could have made a living off of it. When artwork was adored and cherished. Now, no one seems to care if you have artistic skills.

            Mom practically limped from the other half of the house to check on me in the small, ratty kitchen. She had a large red handprint on her face that already was beginning to bruise. I quickly stood and ran up to her, hugging her tightly in my small arms. We both knew that dad would leave one day because of Dylan and I. He was heartless, only caring about himself and his wealth. Because of Dylan and I, we were stuck in one of the lowest social classes – the Shards. We could be in a class above – the Cracked – and live in a safer, better neighborhood. Well, not we. Dad and mom could have done that if they simply got rid of Dylan and I. It's the life all Shards hoped for. Dad was just like the rest of them.

            In my neighborhood, I was called weak. Childish. Useless. There were no girls that really lived along the dirt road I called home. Just me. There were also the older teenage boys who were really mean. They told me to stop fooling around with art and actually try surviving for once. Try protecting myself. I still didn't really understand why I needed protecting. There were men to protect us so we didn't have to worry. Sure, they could be mean and hurtful but only if you misbehaved.

            They would come everyday, these men – the Imposers who were clothed in crimson uniforms with a thick green stripe wrapping around their left bicep.  They'd knock on the door and smile when I open it. They'd search the house and leave with a salute. It made me feel safe to know that nothing was wrong with my house, so why did everyone cower in fear at the men who'd be kind when you were kind to them?