Runner, Runner

Sharona, Fall Town - 1st Year

Sharona, 1st Year

Normally, birthdays are something to be celebrated and rejoiced for, except for one in my world.

Thirteen years old. No longer a child, but still so far from being an adult. Still so much in need of a mother, a father, a family, and a home to call their own.

My thirteenth birthday arrives without warning, quietly slip up on me and my family without so much as a notice or a whisper. The night before I slide into my bed, weary and tired from the work I already have to do as a budding member of our society, the thought jars and hits me like a runaway wagon; tomorrow, I will be thirteen, exactly thirteen, on the day that will decide my future of my life—of my destiny.

The morning of my thirteenth birthday my mother wakes me up early and summons me for breakfast. I dread rising myself from bed. My mother seems to sense this, and strokes my unruly hair a few times before quietly leaving the small corner room I call my own, while I curl up in bed. As soon as I get up and start moving, I won’t be able to deny the reality any longer.

But eventually the hard-wired habit of rising early, though usually for work, drives me from the next of quilts and pillows I so desperately love.

Tears burn my eyes but I ignore them, instead sliding on yesterday’s dusty work clothes and pad barefoot out to the living room that occupies most of the house—a room that functions as a kitchen, a dining room, and a place where we can all collapse and talk for a few minutes before dragging our tired bodies off to our respective beds to sleep the night away.

My mother is in the kitchen, standing at our stove, barefoot like me, wearing too her work dress from yesterday. Hers is older than mine, and more worn through. Like many things we own.

She offers me a smile, though it seems to wobble a little as I tentatively slide into my chair.

“Would you like to help?” She asks, like she always does, though this is a morning where it is truly an option. I could sit down and let her prepare breakfast for all of us—my brother, my father, herself, and me.

I stand back up, softly walking out to our narrow kitchen. “What would you like me to do?”

“Chop up some apples—dice them, please. I’m making sweet cakes for you and Dewey.”

My eyes widen but I do as I’m told. Sweet cakes are by far my favorite breakfast food, and my brother’s too. Both he and my father are still asleep, and they no doubt need it. While my mother and I don’t have to work in the orchards today, they both have to still attend to their jobs in the fields.

After all, it’s only a holiday for the women of the provinces today.

My throat sticks weirdly and I silently chop apples, taking care to make them evenly shaped.

“All done, Aislinn?”

I nod, and carry the small bowl full of diced apples to her. She takes the bowl from me and her worn hand brushes my cheek. A tender gesture I have come to take advantage of, I realize.

I close my eyes and lean into that hand, inhaling deeply through my nose. My mother smells of comfort and food. Of dust and hard work.

If I’m drafted as a Runner, there is a very good chance I will never smell this again, or feel her hand caressing my tan cheek.

My eyes squeeze shut tighter, and my mother’s soft sigh hits my face.

“Could you go wake up your brother, and father?”

“Of course,” I mumble, opening my eyes and looking up at my mother. Her hazel eyes are sad and questioning, and also filled with love. A smattering of freckles covers her face and arms, like they cover my body. Her hair is already streaking with grey at the temples, the otherwise dusty brown strands twisted back into a simple bun. My own wheat-gold hair is twisted back into the same style, though much less elegantly and much messier, loose strands hanging around my face.