Kennedy's Monologue
It wasn't even this crowded the day my mother sold me for a bronze kettle.
"Hurry, Schalane! The train is about to start!" cries Erik.
Struggling to find his face through the sea of bobbing heads separating us, I falter for a moment. A wisp of his charcoal brown hair vanishes in the hurling throng. The thirty people behind me shuffle with impatience, dark scowls painted upon their faces.
I should step back and let them ahead of me. That's what a caring person would do. In my experience, however, people who care die first.
Something is terribly wrong, and I can't place it. It's as if I've been submerged in water a little too cold. I'm uncomfortable, but not panicked.
I need to force my nausea back, somewhere it's not seen as weakness. …show more content…
"Isn't your presence supposed to be bad luck?"
His question sounds strangely like a statement.
Turning abruptly, I give him more attention than deserved. His light eyes flatten to slits, resembling a snake. He's just as disagreeable and sullen as one.
"It's bad luck for you, you dull fool. You now have been cursed for the rest of your life. I wouldn't be surprised if I can read better than you," I hiss.
Ignoring the toxic fumes of exhaust, I storm onto the train, left foot forward, before he can say another word. I am far too sensitive when it comes to my status in Morian hierarchy.
The interior of the train is like a long succession of slender boxes strung upon a heavily knotted wire. The train floor is flat, with the occasional wood panel, and seven rows of shabby seats line the first car. My nostrils are flooded with the scents of rainwater, fear, and old shoes. One or two furtive glances spring toward me, and I have a clear idea why.
Surely there would be more slaves here!
Concealing my right wrist, I cover the iron band of ownership with my free hand. I've never understood why young slaves are frowned upon by some. It seems illogical to me, but I've learned to act far older than my …show more content…
The train door has closed. I can't turn back now.
Erik tilts his chin away from the window, his bold gaze fixated upon the reflection of the rising sun. His younger sister still waves tirelessly with both hands, her hand motions indecipherable from one another.
"Attention," blows a rustling voice through the air tunnels, fluctuating greatly. It seems to travel through the thin pipes overhead.
"According to last year's census, there should be one thousand eighty-nine people on this train. That is, if none of you have perished within the last year. The overseers within each car will conduct a brief recount, for security purposes. Those eligible and found absent have severe penalties in store for them."
The voice fades away, leaving nothing but metallic echoes. The two train overseers of our car, wearing distinctive washed-out gray uniforms, saunter down the rows of seats. Collecting names and head counts, they move from row to row, not wasting a second of their time.
"They're efficient," I note, observing the determined gleam in their eyes. I haven't seen such orderliness in a long
"Hurry, Schalane! The train is about to start!" cries Erik.
Struggling to find his face through the sea of bobbing heads separating us, I falter for a moment. A wisp of his charcoal brown hair vanishes in the hurling throng. The thirty people behind me shuffle with impatience, dark scowls painted upon their faces.
I should step back and let them ahead of me. That's what a caring person would do. In my experience, however, people who care die first.
Something is terribly wrong, and I can't place it. It's as if I've been submerged in water a little too cold. I'm uncomfortable, but not panicked.
I need to force my nausea back, somewhere it's not seen as weakness. …show more content…
"Isn't your presence supposed to be bad luck?"
His question sounds strangely like a statement.
Turning abruptly, I give him more attention than deserved. His light eyes flatten to slits, resembling a snake. He's just as disagreeable and sullen as one.
"It's bad luck for you, you dull fool. You now have been cursed for the rest of your life. I wouldn't be surprised if I can read better than you," I hiss.
Ignoring the toxic fumes of exhaust, I storm onto the train, left foot forward, before he can say another word. I am far too sensitive when it comes to my status in Morian hierarchy.
The interior of the train is like a long succession of slender boxes strung upon a heavily knotted wire. The train floor is flat, with the occasional wood panel, and seven rows of shabby seats line the first car. My nostrils are flooded with the scents of rainwater, fear, and old shoes. One or two furtive glances spring toward me, and I have a clear idea why.
Surely there would be more slaves here!
Concealing my right wrist, I cover the iron band of ownership with my free hand. I've never understood why young slaves are frowned upon by some. It seems illogical to me, but I've learned to act far older than my …show more content…
The train door has closed. I can't turn back now.
Erik tilts his chin away from the window, his bold gaze fixated upon the reflection of the rising sun. His younger sister still waves tirelessly with both hands, her hand motions indecipherable from one another.
"Attention," blows a rustling voice through the air tunnels, fluctuating greatly. It seems to travel through the thin pipes overhead.
"According to last year's census, there should be one thousand eighty-nine people on this train. That is, if none of you have perished within the last year. The overseers within each car will conduct a brief recount, for security purposes. Those eligible and found absent have severe penalties in store for them."
The voice fades away, leaving nothing but metallic echoes. The two train overseers of our car, wearing distinctive washed-out gray uniforms, saunter down the rows of seats. Collecting names and head counts, they move from row to row, not wasting a second of their time.
"They're efficient," I note, observing the determined gleam in their eyes. I haven't seen such orderliness in a long