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The Hidden Treasure

"The only thing that matters in this world."

By Lauren RigbyPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
21

My tiny body is thrown forward as someone shoves past me, their jagged, bony elbow poking me in my back painfully in their efforts to pass me by. The acrid smell of bodies assaults me, the stench of urine, sweat, grime and despair are all too familiar and I suck in another greedy breath, but it does not satisfy, the stale air within the stone walls is almost stifling. I force myself to breathe through my mouth as I grasp onto my mother’s hand, anxious not to get lost in the crowd.

I smile up at my mother’s kind face, her green eyes shine even in the muted light of the lanterns that cast ghoulish shadows on the copper and grey walls of the mountain. I feel her grip on my hand tighten a little as the throng of people surge forward, the slow march of the working community, anxious to get home before the lanterns dim.

Another scent drifts towards me though, one that makes the saliva rush to my mouth and my stomach rumble angrily. I push to stand on my tiptoes, hoping for a glimpse of him passing by, but all I am met with is a sea of bodies, dog-tired people, who are all looking forward, faces blank, the exhaustion etched into them like wrinkles.

The sweet warm smell of the bread curls around us and I feel each wishful groan that slips from the mouths of each person, like a wave of utter need and starvation just flowing through the crowd. I manage to sneak a peek at the rickety wooden truck, the softly toasted loaves sitting proudly, taunting each of us.

We are slaves, not companions. We are workers, not friends. We have a job that we are assigned and in return we get to live this miserable life. But as soon as the back breaking toil, and long hours take its toll on our malnourished, sun deprived bodies, we are ‘dispatched’, all in the guise of keeping the community ‘pure’.

I squeeze my mother’s hand, seeking the comfort that she is beside me, that she will take care of me. We finally reach the corner, where we can escape the mass of people, all searching for their exit, to be on their way to their homes. Our shacks are not luxurious, not like the decadence of the Highers. I’ve heard people say they have so much food, they can barely eat it. The Highers don’t have hands that crack and bleed from wringing the laundry or backs that scream from chopping wood. No, they spend their days making policies, and tending to Jerome, the leader. Jerome is the one who decides who gets to live and who gets to die.

My ancestors had fled here to escape the destruction of the Final War. I don’t know why it started, I asked my mother once and she simply said, “Religion, money or power. Those are the only things man goes to war for Alice.”

I think about that now while we duck between the huts, my mother expertly finding her way in almost complete darkness, and I know that it isn’t true. No God would allow this, money was useless and power? What power was a I ever going to amass?

My musings are interrupted by raucous laughter, the kind that makes me want to climb up into my mother's arms the way I used to. It is the perfect position to bury my face into her long, thick bright blonde hair, and play with the secret treasure she keeps around her neck. A delicate golden chain, holding her most prized possession, her heart-shaped locket.

I was allowed to touch it, to run my finger over the intricate swirling design that was carved into the precious metal. I had wondered what was inside, my intrigue and curiosity forcing me to beg her to tell me. She’d just given me that sweet smile and said, “The only thing that matters in this world.”

This world. An echo of the past, a living hell for us, crammed into tiny shacks, forced to work every hour of every day, until are not useful anymore. Then we are collected, one by one, by the Shadows. Jerome’s soldiers of doom, who at his orders, every five years gather up those no longer fit to contribute to society. This ritual sacrifice is meant to purge us of our weak links, to keep the community strong. Funnily enough no one up High is ever deemed too weak to be a member of society, not one.

I feel the sharp tug of my hand which reminds me to hurry up. I jump into action, practically running to keep up with her long strides. Finally, she pushes open the door to our little hut. She takes off my jacket and hangs it up and I run to my tattered homemade doll, who is lolling on the kitchen table.

I stroke my finger over her soft wool hair, her hand stitched dress with the uneven hem. It always makes me smile. My mother could stitch up a person, but when it came to clothes, she was less than impressive. I don’t care though. This dress was forty minutes of her precious time. The hair was ten minutes. The little stitched eyes were two each. I am not good at adding but I know that amounts to a whole lot of love. “Hello Rosie. Did you miss me?”

My mother smiles warmly as she washes her hands and wraps an old apron around her. She pulls her long hair up into a loose ponytail. I sit and scrutinise her; her nose is a little crooked and her two front teeth overlap ever so slightly, she is skin and bone like the rest of us, but to me…she is the most beautiful woman in the world. She potters around the kitchen, moving fluidly to make my dinner, her hips sway slightly, and she smiles humming along to herself. I hear the soft, wet splat against the wooden counter, the strong scent of iron and meat fills the small hut and I gag. “Mama…not liver.”

Her left eyebrow shoots up the way it always does, and I answer before she can, “I know. We are lucky to eat at all, and we don’t have the luxury of choice here. It will keep me strong.”

Her eyes narrow at me, but a small smirk plays at her slim lips. After a sharp nod, she carries on, pulling the sharpest knife we have out of the drawer. The blood seeps out of the flesh as the knife slides through the organ. I hate this place. The damp walls that never seem to be dry, the urine-soaked paths that always hold that fresh tang of ammonia, with air that seems to cling to your skin like it is a parasite, sucking the life out of you with every breath.

I take a small piece of paper and a pencil from the kitchen drawer and sit at the table. I push away the smell of liver and focus on my drawing. A picture of an apple, the longing for the taste of sweetness fills me. I’d had one…once. It had been a secret treat, an indulgence that had to be kept quiet. My mouth waters at the memory of the crunch when my teeth cut through the pale green skin, the spike of sour that hit my tongue only to give way to delicious, unexpected sweetness…

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I drop my pencil and it rolls off the table and falls to the floor, the hammering at the door startles me. My mum looks confused at first and then I hear a man’s voice through the wood. She rushes into action. Her hand finds my shoulder and she pushes me under the rustic bed, complete with straw mattress and uncomfortable pillows. She presses her fingers to her lips, and I freeze, my eyes wide, my lip trembling with terror. The look of utter terror on her face hits me and I made a silent promise to be good, to be quiet.

She drapes the blanket over the bed, hiding me from sight, and then straightens her clothes. The banging again scares me, and I cover my ears, forcing myself to stay silent.

“Well…hello there, pussy cat. I thought you were ignoring me!”

I can’t see properly but I hear shuffling and mumbling. I push the blanket aside just enough so that I can see with one eye. A Guardian! I can tell because of his clothes.

I relax a little, but I don’t move. Something in his eyes makes the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. He’s a protector. One of Jerome’s trusted advisors I tell myself, but my mind fires right back, why is he looking at her like that?

My mother steps out of his reach, backing away from him. I can see the quiver of her lip as he whispers to her. She darts forward and tries to reach the knife, but he is quicker. I cover my mouth to stifle my yelp as he grabs her firmly and pushes her over the table. The plates and dishes clatter to the floor loudly, shattering on the bare stone.

I close my eyes, trying to block out what’s happening. I peek out when I hear a sickening crunch and see his nose is burst open, blood trickling down his lip and chin. I wince against the slap and see my mother's face pinkening. My own face is dripping with tears that slide down my cheeks, easily making their way through the grime and dirt.

He grabs the knife and I squeeze my eyes closed, my fingers pressed over my mouth to stop me from screaming, remembering her unspoken need, for me to be quiet. My mother’s scream echoes around the hut, and I peek through my fingers again. He wants to hurt my mother. My sweet mother who spends her life healing those who are ill. His lip was curled over his teeth making him look like a feral dog. Her hand shoots to her neck in a fluid movement, she tugs and clasps the secret treasure in her closed fist.

I bury my face into my elbow and let my tears fall silently until after the screaming stops and the door slams, the sound of laughter disappearing into the distance. I crawl out from my hiding space. “Mama? He’s gone, mama. You can wake up now…”

Her shining green eyes now are half-mast and lifeless. Her beautiful pale hair is stained red.

“Please, mama. I promise I’ll eat my liver. Please wake up.”

I pull the blanket off the bed and lie it over her body, hiding the evidence of her torture. I slip in next to her and wrap her floppy arm around my shoulders, snuggling into her breast like I did every night. I hum our song softly, the song she sings every night, her croaky, out of tune voice that I desperately wanted to hear again. Just once.

I feel something hit my chest softly, it slips across my shoulder settling between us. The delicate gold chain sat proudly in a swirl, clinging onto my mother’s only treasure in this world, her beautiful golden locket. I try to wipe the blood away, but it doesn’t disappear, it taints the gold with death.

I hook my finger under the chain, holding it up, the blood drops off it and leaves a tormenting streak along the pale skin of my arm. I prise it open and a small clump of hair flutters out, my hair. With a sob I rise, and take the blood covered knife, cutting off a chunk of her blood-stained hair. I press it inside the locket along with my own. I lay it gently across her neck, patting it into place. “See mama, now we get to be together forever.”

Short Story
21

About the Creator

Lauren Rigby

I'm a self-published author of dystopian romance and adult romance. I am a mother of three and an avid reader of everything!

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