An Angel's Hell - Chapter Two
Loren goes to work.
Trudging through the muddy streets, I hurry knowing if I am late the guards would whip me bloody then send me home with no way of getting paid. The sun above shines beautifully as if mocking this hellish town. People walk around me in rags or beg at their usual spots. I tried to beg once, when Thea was sick with yellow fever, it was useless. What was the use of begging when most of the people were poorer for you? Luckily, Thea survived though none of us had expected her to. It did leave her with one deaf ear, however, but no one knew this outside our family. If the Prospects found out they could label her as a defective and have her killed on sight. They strived for a 'clean and pure society'. A bunch of bullshit is what it was.
"Loren!"
It was Hilda, Petti's very own butcher. Many towns would consider it to be a disgrace for a woman to have such a job but, then again, those towns were a hell a lot better off than Petti. Her budgie belly jiggled out of her skin tight shirt and jeans as she stood in his path, waving a small stick of jerky. When scraps of meat were left over or about to go bad, she would hand them out under the guard's noses to children. Considering I was the only one to sell her fish when I was able to spare a few, I was usually the first one she sought after. As if she can see my tongue salivate through my cheeks, she grins a one tooth smile and handed me the meat.
"I hope to be getting some sort of kindness in return at some point and time," she mumbles beneath her breath as a guard wanders by with a prisoner at hand. "You stay out of trouble and be good boy!" Hilda exclaims as she walks away waving her arms at a dog as he tried to sneak into the opened door that led to her store. I could not blame the dog for trying, we were all hungry.
Deciding to save the meat for our ten minute lunch break, I store it one of my smaller peach sacks and make my way to the orchards. The guards that surrounded the opening were drunk as usual and carrying on about last night's delight with several girls from town. I knew all the girls but a few which makes it that much more difficult to walk on by without casting a nasty glare. One of the girls they named was Nina, the girl from my class.
"About damned time you make it, I was getting worried you would be late," nags Jill, my partner in picking peaches.
Really you are not supposed to have any help in the least, but if one of us fall short the other sneakily helps. If we were to get caught, they would have the grounds to kill us. Good thing I am just that good, right?
"Oh, shut your trap and get to picking you old turkey," I mutter back, a playful ring touching the tone of my voice.
Jill scoffs as if greatly offended but laughs in spite. "Turkey? You have gotten rusty, Loren," she says, tossing her blood locks over her shoulder as she stands on her tiptoes to get a plump peach. Jill was just barely my age, in fact, she was a day younger than me. We had been friends ever since the day I tried to beg. It had been raining incredibly hard that day and I was standing alone on a street corner when a guard came up. He had cruel intentions for me but Jill had run up and kicked him in the shin, giving us both time to run away. Later she had cussed me out for being so naive and to never do that again. What would a friend be if they did not cuss you out every now and again, right?
"Ain't my fault, I don't have much practice outside you," I reply, picking peach after peach.
"So you're saying I'm easy?" she accuses, taking a split second to throw me a 'oh-no-you-didn't look.
"I was just saying-..." I begin before the sound of a scuffle catches our attention. In the second row to our left, an elderly man was being brutally whipped by a guard. Stuff like this happens every day, but not to Harold, the nicest man around. I peak through the trees, trying to get a clean view of the fight.
"No, no, please, stop, I'm sorry," he begs, holding up his arms as the guard snaps the whip down once more against the bloody man's back.
The guard glares down at him then hackles a vicious laugh. "You need to learn your place, old man," he responds then brings down the whip.
I hear a crack as the whip makes contact with the Harold's fragile body. I hope, for his sake, it was his spine that broke so that he would not suffer anymore. It was not. Harold crumbles to ground, holding his head as he wails out pleas. The guard continues to strike the man, until it is probable that Harold is dead. Once the guard finishes his eyes flicker up and meets my gaze directly.
"Get back to work or you will be next you little bastard!" he commands, giving Harold's body one hard kick before walking away as if he were a victor.
When he is out of view I rush forward and turn Harold on his side, careful not to let the ground touch the wounds on his back. His eyes are closed and his breathing is shattered. Just as I begin to believe he was dying, his hand reaches out. I take it and hold it gently, surprised by the strength behind the brittle man's grip. He tries to whisper something but it is incoherent so I bend down further in hopes to catch what he is saying.
"Save t-them, b-b-boy," he stammers before his chest collapses and his breath ceases to be.
I squeeze his hand not sure what he meant; it was probably just the rambling of a dying man.
"They raped his granddaughter."
I glance up at a woman I do not know. I believe it is Nina's mother, but I am not for sure. Most of the people around here I do not know because I try so hard not to. If you knew a lot of people, it made it that much more difficult to live because you knew that they would probably be dead before they turned 30. The woman standing over me looks well over sixty but she is probably only forty. Her wiry gray hair sticks out of head in a dismantled hairstyle as her dark blue eyes fall on Harold with pity.
"You better go before they come back to fetch his body. If the guard sees you not working again, you will for sure be punished," she warns before turning away from me.
Taking her advice, I lay Harold's hand on the ground then make my way back to my row with Jill. Neither of us speaks; the air seems to heavy for words to be possible. Instead, we go back to work, hoping to gain the time already lost. Even though she does not say anything, I know she is upset by Harold's death. She used to sneak over to his house and listen to his stories about the days of his parents when people were not ruled by the Prospects. I really doubt that time ever existed even though it was in our history books. How could our ancestors have been so okay with this? If it was true it meant my great-great grandparents were a bunch of uncaring pricks.
"Loren!"
It was Hilda, Petti's very own butcher. Many towns would consider it to be a disgrace for a woman to have such a job but, then again, those towns were a hell a lot better off than Petti. Her budgie belly jiggled out of her skin tight shirt and jeans as she stood in his path, waving a small stick of jerky. When scraps of meat were left over or about to go bad, she would hand them out under the guard's noses to children. Considering I was the only one to sell her fish when I was able to spare a few, I was usually the first one she sought after. As if she can see my tongue salivate through my cheeks, she grins a one tooth smile and handed me the meat.
"I hope to be getting some sort of kindness in return at some point and time," she mumbles beneath her breath as a guard wanders by with a prisoner at hand. "You stay out of trouble and be good boy!" Hilda exclaims as she walks away waving her arms at a dog as he tried to sneak into the opened door that led to her store. I could not blame the dog for trying, we were all hungry.
Deciding to save the meat for our ten minute lunch break, I store it one of my smaller peach sacks and make my way to the orchards. The guards that surrounded the opening were drunk as usual and carrying on about last night's delight with several girls from town. I knew all the girls but a few which makes it that much more difficult to walk on by without casting a nasty glare. One of the girls they named was Nina, the girl from my class.
"About damned time you make it, I was getting worried you would be late," nags Jill, my partner in picking peaches.
Really you are not supposed to have any help in the least, but if one of us fall short the other sneakily helps. If we were to get caught, they would have the grounds to kill us. Good thing I am just that good, right?
"Oh, shut your trap and get to picking you old turkey," I mutter back, a playful ring touching the tone of my voice.
Jill scoffs as if greatly offended but laughs in spite. "Turkey? You have gotten rusty, Loren," she says, tossing her blood locks over her shoulder as she stands on her tiptoes to get a plump peach. Jill was just barely my age, in fact, she was a day younger than me. We had been friends ever since the day I tried to beg. It had been raining incredibly hard that day and I was standing alone on a street corner when a guard came up. He had cruel intentions for me but Jill had run up and kicked him in the shin, giving us both time to run away. Later she had cussed me out for being so naive and to never do that again. What would a friend be if they did not cuss you out every now and again, right?
"Ain't my fault, I don't have much practice outside you," I reply, picking peach after peach.
"So you're saying I'm easy?" she accuses, taking a split second to throw me a 'oh-no-you-didn't look.
"I was just saying-..." I begin before the sound of a scuffle catches our attention. In the second row to our left, an elderly man was being brutally whipped by a guard. Stuff like this happens every day, but not to Harold, the nicest man around. I peak through the trees, trying to get a clean view of the fight.
"No, no, please, stop, I'm sorry," he begs, holding up his arms as the guard snaps the whip down once more against the bloody man's back.
The guard glares down at him then hackles a vicious laugh. "You need to learn your place, old man," he responds then brings down the whip.
I hear a crack as the whip makes contact with the Harold's fragile body. I hope, for his sake, it was his spine that broke so that he would not suffer anymore. It was not. Harold crumbles to ground, holding his head as he wails out pleas. The guard continues to strike the man, until it is probable that Harold is dead. Once the guard finishes his eyes flicker up and meets my gaze directly.
"Get back to work or you will be next you little bastard!" he commands, giving Harold's body one hard kick before walking away as if he were a victor.
When he is out of view I rush forward and turn Harold on his side, careful not to let the ground touch the wounds on his back. His eyes are closed and his breathing is shattered. Just as I begin to believe he was dying, his hand reaches out. I take it and hold it gently, surprised by the strength behind the brittle man's grip. He tries to whisper something but it is incoherent so I bend down further in hopes to catch what he is saying.
"Save t-them, b-b-boy," he stammers before his chest collapses and his breath ceases to be.
I squeeze his hand not sure what he meant; it was probably just the rambling of a dying man.
"They raped his granddaughter."
I glance up at a woman I do not know. I believe it is Nina's mother, but I am not for sure. Most of the people around here I do not know because I try so hard not to. If you knew a lot of people, it made it that much more difficult to live because you knew that they would probably be dead before they turned 30. The woman standing over me looks well over sixty but she is probably only forty. Her wiry gray hair sticks out of head in a dismantled hairstyle as her dark blue eyes fall on Harold with pity.
"You better go before they come back to fetch his body. If the guard sees you not working again, you will for sure be punished," she warns before turning away from me.
Taking her advice, I lay Harold's hand on the ground then make my way back to my row with Jill. Neither of us speaks; the air seems to heavy for words to be possible. Instead, we go back to work, hoping to gain the time already lost. Even though she does not say anything, I know she is upset by Harold's death. She used to sneak over to his house and listen to his stories about the days of his parents when people were not ruled by the Prospects. I really doubt that time ever existed even though it was in our history books. How could our ancestors have been so okay with this? If it was true it meant my great-great grandparents were a bunch of uncaring pricks.
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