Alicia

It’s always like this. Day in, day out, always the same, monotonous droning. Of course, it wasn’t always like this. There was a time… not now though. It will never be the same. They’ve taken our hope. That’s it. There is no hope among us.

Why? Why did they do this? They had no right. What had we ever done? Why are they the reason for the countless tears shed, and the tears stinging my eyes and harrying my footsteps.

Focus, Alicia. Don’t let this stop you. It is too dangerous. If they catch you... Don’t think about that. It’s too awful.

I’ve reached the place. That, unimpressive, small, inconspicuous place where there once was a happy life for me. Cindy won’t know about that little place though. All she’s known is the bleak, sorrow-filled life that I was brought into.

It’s not right. How? Why? It’s just not fair. They have brought us lower than the dogs that roam the streets. Someone will pay. They have to. This feeling of bubbling, scalding rage is more powerful than any army of the Complex.

“You mad?”

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Byron was a middle-aged man, barely breaching forty, but he wore the years badly, with a explosion of unruly hair sticking out and crooked teeth that permanently stank of alcohol. His yellow eyes encircled with crusted muck glared daggers at me over a large, broken nose that had remnants of snot and gunk on hairy nostrils.

“Byron, do you want to help the Outlaws? Our people?”

“Why should you care?”

“Why should I?” Careful, Alicia. Don’t ruin this. “I care because my father, and many others like him, died for those cursed… serpents.”

“They’re too strong, girl. They’ll gobble our people up and spit them out again. They’ll cripple us so badly that we’ll never get up again.”

“Not if we do it right.”

“If we do it right, half of our people will still fall. It is inevitable.”

“Not if we run quickly.”

“I’m done with running. I’m done. So leave me alone.”

No. No. This can’t happen. What has he ever done to help us? Just sits in his shack, swallowing down whatever cursed liquor he drinks.

“Look at us Byron,” I find myself screaming. “Look what they did to us. Do you not care? This would be our last chance. Do you not want to escape this despair-wrought pit?” It’s too much. All I can see and feel is the scalding tears cascading down my cheeks, and silently erupting on the rough wooden floor. Wait. That’s not all.

“You got heart, girl. I’ll do it. For one thing.” I look up and my eyes meet his. I see nothing there. Nothing to read.

“I’m gonna need some something to drink.”

I’ve started to laugh. I don’t know why, but I am. Byron is too. It is a strange sensation, the sound coming off our lips. Why are we laughing?

Because we see hope.

Michael Crosson