How Did Our Family Become So Broken In London?
January, 1811 Dearest Journal,
Crimson blood splattered onto the legs of the merciless power loom that Tuesday morning during the winter of 1811 in London. My small mouth had been gaped open wide, eyes painting the horrific scene into my head. The boy...he was gone. Just like that, at the same age as I, the young male had been smashed by the very thing barely keeping us alive.
“Back to work!” a smack of a belt had made the children around me scatter to their assigned power loom.
Green eyes wide, I’d moved away from the bloody loom, my boots sloshing in the small pool of blood gathering underneath me. Even after walking away, I could still hear the crunching and squeezing of the lifeless boy, his body making the same sounds as a juicy squished bug. I’d noticed a few …show more content…
Her hands had been shaking as she hugged both Walter and I. Even Father had had tearing eyes, his firm shell cracking to his children leaving possibly for forever. How had our family become so broken within days?
When we arrived to London, I hadn’t thought I’d seen such a dark place in my life. Dark black smoke billed out from buildings and garbage covered the streets. The wells full of water even looked unsanitary, clogged with the pollution of the smoking buildings and garbage.
“Those are the factories,” Walter had pointed to all the buildings billowing with smoke. “Father once said that every day more than one child loses something, like a finger or leg, or even their life. Don’t be the reckless self you are, Em, or you’ll get yourself killed.”
I rest now on the itchy hay thinking of my past and the city. Walter, luckily, shifts next to me in his sleep. Why do I say luckily? Most people sleep in small spaces on hay with unknown people in London. I’ve been lucky enough to share a haybed with Walter instead of a stranger. Six others snore and shift in their sleep around us. I can smell their foul breath in the small
Crimson blood splattered onto the legs of the merciless power loom that Tuesday morning during the winter of 1811 in London. My small mouth had been gaped open wide, eyes painting the horrific scene into my head. The boy...he was gone. Just like that, at the same age as I, the young male had been smashed by the very thing barely keeping us alive.
“Back to work!” a smack of a belt had made the children around me scatter to their assigned power loom.
Green eyes wide, I’d moved away from the bloody loom, my boots sloshing in the small pool of blood gathering underneath me. Even after walking away, I could still hear the crunching and squeezing of the lifeless boy, his body making the same sounds as a juicy squished bug. I’d noticed a few …show more content…
Her hands had been shaking as she hugged both Walter and I. Even Father had had tearing eyes, his firm shell cracking to his children leaving possibly for forever. How had our family become so broken within days?
When we arrived to London, I hadn’t thought I’d seen such a dark place in my life. Dark black smoke billed out from buildings and garbage covered the streets. The wells full of water even looked unsanitary, clogged with the pollution of the smoking buildings and garbage.
“Those are the factories,” Walter had pointed to all the buildings billowing with smoke. “Father once said that every day more than one child loses something, like a finger or leg, or even their life. Don’t be the reckless self you are, Em, or you’ll get yourself killed.”
I rest now on the itchy hay thinking of my past and the city. Walter, luckily, shifts next to me in his sleep. Why do I say luckily? Most people sleep in small spaces on hay with unknown people in London. I’ve been lucky enough to share a haybed with Walter instead of a stranger. Six others snore and shift in their sleep around us. I can smell their foul breath in the small