Impure

A/N:

This was originally a chapter book that I started, but gave up on. The story was wacko and crazy beyond belief. So, while I was practicing for a writing tournament, I just rewrote the prologue, but with a definite ending and following a prompt. If anyone REALLY wants me to make it a chapter book again, or something like that, then I may be willing to redo this.

Have fun with my screwed up dystopia :)

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I wish I weren't here. Of all places, why did it have to be here? Sleeping on the street. Shivering in the cold. Panting in the heat. Why did it have to be here?

I was born as an illegitimate child. Looked down upon, hated. Discriminated against. So then, why did he take me in? My uncle. Why was he so kind?

After my parents died, I was thrown into the world until my uncle decided to take me in. He fed me, cared for me, comforted me. The only thing he didn't do was stay alive.

There was an epidemic in the large city where I slept on the streets. My uncle couldn't even get out of bed. He told me that I was lucky that I didn't catch it yet and that I should leave him before my luck wore out. I couldn't leave him though. He was the only friend I had. So I ran. I ran to the pharmacy. There was a cure, but it was very expensive.

I took all of our money and ran to the pharmacy. I hoped it was enough. It had to be enough. It was. I was filled with joy so extreme that the sky became brighter. There was only one problem. The workers named me impure. That's what we call illegitimate children around here: Impure. I could not get the cure because I was considered inferior to the other people who needed the limited supply of medicine.

No matter how many times I told them it was for my pure uncle, they wouldn't listen. That winter, my uncle died.

I buried him in the frozen ground. The ground was hard and my back ached from shoveling the earth. The mix of brutal snow and freezing rain stung my face. My uncle, dead and stinking of disease, stared at me with eyes that refused to close. As I put him down in his hole, he moved not once. As I said my goodbyes, he never returned them. Death is cold and sad. No one should feel this way.

That's when I realized it was all my fault. If I wasn't impure, then my uncle would still be alive today. I'm a killer, I'm a murderer.

Those are the words that whisper to me every morning and every night. It is ten years later. I can't believe that it's been ten years since my hands were blistered from shoveling the ground for endless hours.

Ten years later and the epidemic had come back. Now I lie in the streets. Shivering in the cold. Panting in the heat. I sleep on the cold ground, waiting for death. I lie flat on my back, my luck run out. My hope run dry like a fresh creek in a scorching desert. I wish I weren't here.

Right before I fall asleep for good, I think of my uncle. I tell him how sorry I am and tears of shame pour from my eyes. All I have ever been is a burden and an unwanted child.

But my uncle's kind face tells me, "You can't give up. You are a better person than that. Don't think of yourself as inferior, because you're not."

I believe him. I believe everything he says. He is my only friend. But his words came too late. My life is too close to being over. Now all my uncle can do is open his welcoming arms and accept me into his world. He greets me with a smile as bright as the sun. This... this is a place I want to be. This is the place I will be happy in.