A Shard of Glass

Chapter One - Darlington

It was warm the day the water trickled into the streets of Darlington. The cool water, rife with the stench of sewer and waste, brought with it relief rather than the panic predicted. Darlington sighed. The wait was finally over.

The air was thick with humidity, clinging to the clothes and skin of anyone brave enough to face the heat and the stench. The years of building bigger and thicker walls had finally come to an end. There was nothing left to hold back the rising tide.

I barely remember a time when Darlington, once a well-to-do city, wasn't submerged in a thick layer of water. Rather than succumbing to the elements, the wealthy people of Darlington adapted. Boats became the transportation method of choice, and floating pontoons were erected around the city which rose with the water. Pre-existing houses lay as underwater foundations for multi-floored appartements which pierced through the surface towards the beating sun. The first floor of each building was sealed to prevent the stench from reaching the upper floors and living quarters. The Darlington residents lived in comfort above the waves that lapped at their doorsteps.

In the early years of the floods, the people of Darlington had called us lucky. Despite being only the next suburb along, the elevated position of Harlem ensured that we remained on dry land. To this day Halem remains almost entirely above the waterline. So yes, we were dry, but we were never lucky.

Our houses were predominantly made from tin, wood, and anything else we could selvage from the trash or the shoreline; their flimsy construction barely combatting a stiff breeze. And with the flooding of the outer suburbs came the boats filled with displaced persons. Thousands of them were desperately searching for a new home... and they found one. Harlem is now home to almost 600,000 people. The small island is teeming with us, like ants on a leaf in a thunderstorm. Poverty grew with the population and the smell of trash now intertwined with body odours of various varieties. With one step outside you become engulfed in the sea of people and left to battle the flow to your desired location. The shacks are predominantly low rooved allowing the tallest of us to easily tower above them. Looking out now I can see all the way out to where the sun drops below the ocean, over the top of the rusted, haphazard sardine-can slums of Harlem. I can't stand stationary and look for long as the ebbing tide of bodies threatens to take me back to the markets. I fight my way forward to our shack.

I live with my brothers and sisters, six of us in total in our small shack supported by the wooden frames to its front and rear and tethered to the neighbour's shack on both sides.

We are luckier than most. We have a bathroom and a kitchen of sorts, although neither of them has been connected to the water pipes in over a decade. Still, they are nice to have, and the additional space is a rare commodity. Further to the kitchen and bathroom, we have a living area. Carpeted with an assortment of rugs and foam, our living room serves as both our living area and sleeping quarters. It is always immaculate, once the bed sheets are folded away in the morning, but nothing can make the room feel bigger. With the six of us lying down we barely fit shoulder to shoulder in our beds. It is cosy - not in a good way, but it's home.

There had once been another bedroom, to the rear of the shack. The walls were solid and stood perfectly at 90 degrees. I don't remember confidently, but I think it was part of the building that originally stood on this land before the flood and the refugees. But after our parents were reassigned, it was pulled down to accommodate for Harlem's ever-growing population and obsession with space. Space is a luxury few can afford, privacy is unattainable.

I glance into the living room now, where my siblings lie curled up against one another. It is still early, but it is best to conserve our energy where we can. Our dad taught us that. I miss the way his eyes would crinkle when he brought us back a piece of fruit from work to share, and the joy on his smile when we devoured our slices with vigour. Since the flood, fruit practically vanished from existence. The orchards were so saturated they could no longer support their growth. I treasure those memories, but fear for what they cost our dad. He would have moved the world for us. I inhale deeply and step back into the kitchen.

Hunched over, I peel my clothes off my back and add them onto the neat pile in the corner. They desperately need a wash, but tomorrow they will be dirtier and the day after, worse still. It is difficult to find purpose in continuous washing of clothes and bodies when the outside environment is so filthy, but our parents taught us cleanliness so of course, we do our best.

I make a mental note to take the others' clothes with mine to the ocean tomorrow. I pull my fingers through my long hair and tuck it behind my ears. Having long hair is impracticable, but the faint memory of a comb being pulled through it as a soft tune was sung is enough to encourage me to keep it.

I have so many memories of Dad and all the things he taught us in the fast-changing environment we were brought up in, but I remember almost nothing of our mother. The song she would hum to me and her fingers running through my hair is everything I have left. Her face is a blur of pastel colours which slip further away every time I try to focus.

I let my hand drop from my hair, look at the tarnished mirror on the wall and sigh. I am filthy. Stray strands of dark hair cling to the dirt and sweat on my face. It is disgusting. I wonder if our parents would be disappointed in our efforts to uphold the values that they taught us.

At least dirt will hide my pale skin in the shadows, I think to myself.

Sometimes in this world, it is best to be invisible.

Taking care not to step on limbs I climb into our bed. With my back against the tin, I settle in next to my sister, who barely moves as I slide one of my arms around her and get comfortable.

"Did you find anything?" She asks me in a hushed whisper.

My heart sinks at the hope in her voice and settles in the pit of my stomach. There was nothing left to find.

"Don't worry, sis. I have a plan for tomorrow."

She mumbles something unintelligible and relaxes against my body back into slumber.

Finding food is getting harder these days. The markets in Harlem are out of stock within hours of being restocked. People line up for hours only to discover there is nothing left. The tough buyer's market ensures the prices keep skyrocketing - not great if you are trying to support a family of 6. I had stood in line for 2 hours today. I was later than usual, so I wasn't surprised to discover that the food was in fact already gone, but the disappointment was there just the same.

My baby sister pulls my arm in towards her body and hugs it tight. The bottom of her ribcage connects with my wrist bone uncomfortably with little cushion between the two. Despite her young age, she lacks the baby fat I remember from only months ago.

I don't like the plan, but it is evident we won't make it through the week at this rate. I must do whatever it takes to provide for my family at any cost.

It is time to go hunting.