Chapter 2

runaways

With our gazes cast to the ground, avoiding the patrol officers’ scrutinising faces, my dad and I walk towards our neighbourhood. The houses are all the same sizes, small, almost unimaginable that a family of four (even three) could live in such a tiny space. The dirt path we’re walking on is wet from the rain, my dad slips and falls in the mud. One of the officers sneers at us, kicking soil on our clothes while I kneel down to help my dad stand.

We make it to the house, my dad slipping several times as we hurriedly try to escape the patrol officers. I hold the door open for my dad, the wind and the cold follows him inside. I quickly shut the door, wrapping the jacket tightly around myself, sticking my frozen nose inside the collar.

I see that mom has already made supper, and laid it out on the wooden table in the middle of the small room. Breakfast for dinner again. Another boiled egg and kimchi. Dad pulls out a chair and sits down, tossing his gloves aside. He reaches for a boiled egg and eats it in two bites.

I walk over to the wood stove in the corner, grab a couple of logs out of the basket that mom has woven, and attempt to make a fire. The fire begins to flicker and crackle in front of me. I stand up, take off my jacket, hanging it over one of the chairs. My dad continues to munch on the food and only stops to point at the chair across from him, gesturing for me to take a seat.

«I have to check on mom first.» I tell him.

I push aside the makeshift door (which is just an old blanket held up by two nails above the entranceway), and make my way into the bedroom where mom’s already asleep, wrapped up in two thick blankets. On the bedside table I notice an empty bottle of pills.

Picking up the bottle, I walk out of the bedroom, and into the bathroom which only has a toilet, a sink and a cabinet with a cracked mirror attached to it. I open the cabinet, trying to find another bottle of pills, but we’re out of the medicine that my mom needs.

It feels like everything in the universe is against my family and me. I push away the toothbrushes, bandaids and cotton buds in a desperate attempt to find something — anything else.

There’s a small medicine bottle that has been knocked over at the very back. It’s what my brother used to take. He had inherited my mom’s disease, or something similar. We kept the bottle because everything’s worth something. We could’ve traded it, could’ve sold it if we were really desperate.

His medicine is not the medicine that my mom needs, she needs something stronger, but it could work, should keep her alive for a couple of weeks, until I get my pay check and can pay for more.

I unscrew the lid, placing it on the edge of the sink. I empty the blue pills into my hand, counting them, counting the days my mom has left. The bottle has fewer pills than I had hoped. I hold it upside down, wishing for a miracle, hoping an extra blue pill will fall out. But there’s nothing, except for a weird rattling.

There’s something inside. I shake the bottle while holding it close to my ear, hearing it rattle again. There’s definitely something inside. I start scraping at the walls with my finger. Hissing, I pull it out, seeing a small cut on my fingertip. Blood slowly seeps out of the small wound. I reach for a bandaid and wrap it around my fingertip, then I stick my hand back inside.

I feel a piece of paper stuck to the wall. Taking a pair of tweezers from the cabinet, I begin poking at the inside of the bottle, barely managing to get a hold of the piece of paper that’s stuck inside. I try again, reaching and reaching until finally I’ve got it. I pinch my fingers together, trapping the paper. I carefully pull out the piece of paper, but to my surprise, it’s not just one, it’s two — there are two pieces of paper inside.

I put the bottle on the edge of the sink, holding the pieces of paper up to the flickering lamp above my head and I see numbers, a barcode, and I realise that what I’m holding are the two missing train tickets.

I stumble backwards, crashing into the wall, unable to breathe. In my hands, I am holding freedom, precious, tiny freedom. I try not to scrunch the tickets. I try to keep my bearings but every thing is suddenly spinning. It’s too good to be true, it has to be. How can freedom fall into my hands like this?

Closing the cabinet door a little too roughly, I flee the bathroom. Mom begins to stir and asks in a raspy voice if I’m okay. I can only grumble in reply. I startle dad out of the chair, but I go right past him and outside into the pouring rain.

I run out of the neighbourhood and along the wall which separates the Miners Community from the other communities. I run past the bakery that sells nothing but stale bread and pastries, past the blacksmith and the woodcutter’s house.

I run past the prayer house where I used to play the piano and up the hill that overlooks the Miner’s Community. There’s a large tree up here, with big leaves that serve as an umbrella, shielding me from the rain.

The tickets feel heavy in my hand. They burn, scorch me, mark me in the most horrible way. They remind me of something I can’t have but oh so desperately want. I can taste it on my lips, in the water that drips onto my forehead, slides down my cheeks.

It tastes… Like freedom… Sweet, sweet freedom.

I sit on my haunches and lean my back against the tree. I hold the tickets out in front of me, knowing that my brother shouldn’t have hidden them. Heck, he shouldn’t have had them in the first place.

How could he? When he had a responsibility to me, mom, dad and even the Guild. It must be a lie, I won’t — can not — believe it. He’s better than that, and that’s how I’m going to remember him.

He’s not a liar, he’s not a revolutionist, he didn’t have any faith in the cause. He’s a miner, and he’s my brother. He might not be here, but he’s not gone. He’s just… lost. The Guild’s probably got him. And they’ll return him soon.

Yes. They do that: they return people who are good. And my brother is good. One of the best. He’ll be back. I know it. He’ll turn up on a sunny day with a smile on his face, and he’ll walk into the Miners Community, standing proud and tall, and we’ll welcome him with open arms and be glad that he’s back, that he’s finally home.

When the rain has let up, and it’s only dripping a little, I make my way down the hill, keeping my gaze plastered to the ground so that none of the patrol officers bother me. My legs are like jelly, the ground uneven beneath my feet.s

There’s a commotion coming from one of the houses. I hear shouting and screaming and guns being fired. I take a sharp left down one of the alleyways, avoiding the conflict. That’s when I spot a young woman, perhaps my age, sitting on the ground with her legs drawn up to her chest and head in her hands. I don’t reveal myself, I stay hidden by the entrance of the alleyway. The woman’s sobbing. I should continue down the street. I notice her clothes, the frilly dress that’s covered in dirt at the hem. She’s not a Miner, not even a Worker. Probably a Washer, or maybe she’s with the Elites.

The woman looks up, gasps. «Are you— Are you— » She manages through her sobs.

«What?» I ask. I look around to make sure no one’s watching me, and step into the alleyway.