Judgment Chapter One - second rough draft

Judgment - Chapter One

A luminous glow dilutes the sky as Clay and I make our way into town. The dawning air is thick with heat. Blades of grass catch between my toes as I walk, and a few grains of dirt catch between my sandals and the base of my feet. The field below me holds the bodies of thousands of citizens. We live in Vita: A country split into divisions and built above its dead.

“I'd sell my mother for a cool breeze,” Clay says, breaking the silence.

“Your mother's dead,” I remind him.

“Fine.” He knocks his shoulder into mine. “I'd sell you.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Believe me I would. I'd sell my father right now for a bottle of water.”

“Your father's dead.” I quickly fan my face, then tuck my blonde curly hair behind my ear.

Clay Laughs. “Us orphans can't catch a break, ey?”

“You're not an orphan. You have Birte.”

“You have Birte, too.”

I smile. Birte's raised me my entire life. He took me in when no one else would, even when every other citizen in our Division turned their backs on him for it. I owe Birte my life. “True, but he's your grandfather.”

“That doesn't mean anything, Reed. He loves you just as much as he loves me.”

I don't reply. Clay would say anything to make me happy. He's sacrificed just as much as Birte over the years because of his association with me.

A familiar guilt tugs at my stomach as the concrete skyline of our Division appears over the hill. We've been walking for twenty minutes, but at a good pace we can reach the edge of town in fifteen. It's the insufferable heat slowing us.

“You okay?”

No. On the first day of every month Clay and I make the journey into Town to collect our rations. It's not a trip I look forward too, but Clay insists I accompany him. “I'm used to the glares now. And it's been weeks since anyone felt the need to stop and tell me how much they hate me. I'd call that progress.”

He smiles, a lazy half grin. His eyes look like a starless night sky in the early light. Right now, with the birthing sun reflecting off his face, he looks almost radiant. If it wasn't for the purple hues under his eyes, and sharp cheek bones he would look healthy. And if it wasn't for my parents he would be.

I take a deep breath as we reach the top of the hill. Ahead of us is nothing but concrete. Grey buildings; Grey pavements; Grey roads; Grey clothes; Even the citizens have ashen skin: Another legacy of my parents.

As we weave our way through the maze of high rise buildings, Clay takes hold of my hand. I'm thankful for the heat as it disguises my sweaty palms and hides my nerves. There are more Citizens on the streets than usual.

“Probably woken by the heat,” Clay whispers, hurrying his pace and taking me along right beside him. I hope he's right. The only other time the streets are busy this early are Judgement days, but we haven't had one of those for months.

Other Divisions are more advanced than ours, or so they say. No one in our Division can afford the train fares to travel. Samon Tana, the leader of our Division and one seventh of The Imperium that rule Vita, made sure of that sixteen years ago to punish the citizens of the Division he was supposed to lead. We are under fed, under paid and under valued on Saman Tana's orders. Of course no one blames our great leader. It isn't his fault. He's a good man, a great leader. Our Division was once one of the most thriving in the whole of Vita. Our simple way of living was envied for it's results. Now we're mocked.

And it's all my parents fault.

We snake our way through the market traders, keeping our heads lowered. The faster we can get in and out the better chance I won't anger anyone. Once Citizens collect their rations, some trade each other at the market. Experienced traders hold their own stalls, trading anything from food and clothing to furniture. No one ever has enough of anything, but most manage to balance and trade their rations enough to sustain themselves.

Rations are usually delivered to families in the high rise buildings by runners made up of mostly school leavers, but no one was willing to be a runner out to where Birte, Clay and I lived.

I'm not even sure if that's because of me or because we live in the cemetery. I guessed it was a mixture of the two.

Birte had made an arrangement with a friendly Guardian (The officers of The Imperium who make sure their laws are followed) years earlier for us to collect our rations from him at the back of his wife’s trading stall. Unluckily for me her stall is on the north side of the market, furthest away from where we enter.

The unmistakable stench of poverty is overwhelming in the compact market square - body sweat, dirt and decay – it clogs the air . The back of my neck is damp with perspiration but I can't move my hair to wipe it away until we are out of town. My thick curls are the only good inheritance I have from my mother, they shield my face from others as we rush through the crowd.

Clay releases my hand and grabs hold of me by the wrist, pulling me through the crowd still. I concentrate on where I place my feet, careful not to step on anyone or knock into anything. The dust from the ground whips up into my eyes occasionally, but there is nothing I can do but keep my head lowered and squint.

The last time I'd walked through the market with my head held high (during my one attempt at rebellion) a female citizen had spat in my face. I was thirteen.

“Clay!” It's Lirit, the Guardian who Birte struck our ration deal with. “Hurry along now before the market becomes busier.”

As Clay guides us around the back of Lirit's wooden stall, I raise my head. He greets me with a curt nod, just as he always has. Even though he will not directly speak to me he at least acknowledges me. I understand the position he is in, and the risks he takes to even hold our ration for us, and I'm grateful.

“What's going on? Why is everyone market bound so early? It's barely past dawn,” Clay asks as Lirit pulls a sack containing our rations out from behind some empty boxes.

I sit cross legged on the concrete, enjoying a small rest from the gruelling heat.

“You shouldn't be here today.” He tightens the tie at the top of the sack.

“Why?”

Lirit straightens his back, his brown shirt – part of his all brown Guardian Uniform – not tucked in. It's rare to see a Guardian in anything other than full uniform. It's seen as a Judgeable offence for a Guardian to incorrectly represent the Imperium, this includes not showing loyalty through your presentation.

“Um, your shirt, Sir,” I say. It's the first time I've ever directly addressed Lirit, and his eyes widen. Even Clay has his eyebrows raised. “Sorry,” I say quickly, lowering my head.

“No it's fine. It's just... you can speak? I always thought you were a mute,” Lirit says. I lift my head to see his eyes are still wide. “ Why have you never spoken before?”

His attention is on me and it makes me nervous. I can hear the many loud voices coming from over the other side of the wooden shack. What if someone out there heard me speak? What if they recognised my voice? If I was caught here they would accuse me of disrespecting a Guardian and I would be judged. The citizens would be angry, outraged, and Lirit wouldn't defend me. He'd be foolish to publicly defend the daughter of Rootz and Cotton Rousey. But I can't ignore a direct question from a Guardian either.

“I know my place in our Division,” I tell him and he nods.

“You're a citizen just like the rest of us, Reed,” Clay says. “You've done nothing wrong.” His voice is strong but there are some things he can't protect me from. There are some things I wouldn't let him risk his life over, and there are some things that it wouldn't make a difference if he did.

“Dad?” A girls voice calls from the front of the stall, causing all three of us to whip our heads in that direction, and cutting Lirit off before he can finish. “Dad are you here?”

When I look back to Lirit his expression is one I'm all too familiar with. Fear. He might risk himself to speak with me but he wouldn't risk his daughter.

“Dad, what are you...oh.” May Pitcher, Lirit's daughter, is two years younger than me at fourteen, but you wouldn't know it. She's the only other girl I’ve ever seen with hair as long, thick and curly as my own. She's also the only other girl I know who is openly shunned by citizens. When May was younger everyone would comment on how much slower she developed than the other children and as she grew older the differences between her and others her age were undeniable. Parents began to warn their children to keep their distance from her. Still, she isn't hated.

Clay and I see her from time to time at the lake that stretches from Town to the Cemetery. She ventures closer to where we live than anyone else. Occasionally she will join us for a swim or a few hours of cloud watching.

“Hello,” she says. “I didn't know you two were friends with my dad too.”

I chance a look at Lirit and regret it immediately. His face is flushed, his eyes narrowed. “May, honey. Go and keep an eye on the stall for me, please.”

May crosses her arms across her chest petulantly, but she turns and goes.

Sensing we have outstayed our welcome, Clay says goodbye to Lirit. “I'll go make sure it's okay to leave.” He walks around the front of the stall with the heavy sack on his strong shoulders.

I climb back to my feet and wipe the dust from my skirt, aware of Lirit's intense stare. “He's right you know,” he says quietly. “The way you are treated isn't right. You should know that.”

I offer him a small smile of thanks before turning to leave.

“Reed?” I turn back to Lirit. “Stay away from my daughter.”