Chapter 1 - The Descent
There is nothing as far as the eye can see. Nothing. Just a barren wasteland, the dust settling on my shoes, as I gaze at the barbed wire fence, buzzing with electricity. Great. How was I going to find food here? I thought, as a wave of fatigue washed over me. I hadn't slept for days- well how could I with the threat of death looming over Camp 402? If we didn't mine quickly enough, if we couldn't keep up with the demand of coal from our mines then we would be destroyed, obliterated like the other 34 camps before us. Dust. Actually, very similar to Camp 402, where there are only a handful of wobbly shacks arranged in a rough circle in the centre, in the middle of which is the town hall, with peeling paint and two doors unhinged at the front. Dotted around that is some shops, a baker, butchers, and a couple of dozen of mines. Everywhere mines, the sight of blackened faces and sallow cheeks - even on the children, and the sound of the odd crack as someone's back goes after lifting tonne after tonne of coal ready to be packed off to the Government's comfort. It's awful if your back goes. One minute you're healthy and strong, next you're frail and begging for food from the camp that has hardly any, and the next you're just a pile of bones unmoving in the market square. Unmoving. Not breathing.
I sigh as I tie my white hair back and push it under my hood. No, I am not old, but an albino, a witch, supposedly. Well, if I was then I'd zap myself out of there, kill the government in one swipe of my hand and burn the whole rotten lot of them to the ground with my blue eyes. Suddenly, I turn around, sharpish. You can never be too sure that they can't be listening. But no, it's just sad mad Mags, who gasps at the sight of me and runs away. I can't be angry at her for long though. Because of her disability, she was half drowned when she was a child. Addled with her brain they said. Simple they call her. Messed up. Not like the rest of us. I just call her confused.
The sun rising slowly in the sky brings me to my senses. I dash off to the Town Hall, and find I'm first in the queue. Great. This means I'll get my gruel first, and will be able to dash to the mine first, then maybe father and I will somehow keep up with demand. If we do, we won't be last and everyone knows if you are last, by the end of the month, you get strung up from the scaffold. I collect my meagre potion of flour mixed with grimy water and sit on the steps of the Hall. Within minutes, my friend Violet appears next to me, so called because of her violet eyes. Camp 402. The camp of misfits.
"My favourite," grimaces Vi, "Just the best." I smile wanly at her. I'd joke with her but, I don't know, this morning has a weird feel about it; I feel like someone's watching me. So I don't dare joke. Vi sees my face and stops. "You ok?" she asks. "Fine." I say, but it's a lie. I swirl my gruel around with my spoon, watching grey spirals dance around in my bowl. "You 'know, often I wonder about it. Food. What it's like to have indigestion, or feel sick because I've eaten too much. Don't you?" I nod, but what she says stirs something inside me; how the Government know they will comfortably eat 3 times a day, and can afford to eat delicacies like chicken or strawberries, whereas we can barely scrape 2 pennies together to form a measly flour and water. Not even with bread. In frustration, I fling my bowl onto the greying gravel path. Violet jumps. "What'd you do that for?" she shrieks. I shrug, but I am really worried as I stare at the sludge coloured splat on the cobblestones, as this is my whole meal for the day.
After I have scraped off what I can off the road, and eaten it, we trudge back to my shack to collect our mining clothes; grey rags which have turned black with coal. Grey, just like everything in this place. Grey, like our moods. We shrug them on and then run to the wobbly hut called the Hob which is where we meet up with father and travel down the lift ready to mine. And yes, Violet helps us too, as both her parents were blown to bits in a mine explosion. She got to bury a finger I think. It was the biggest bit of them left. My father, who's has a too big a heart than what's good for him, agreed that she could stay with us and mine with me. Be a bit of company in those long dark hours. Weird really- we don't really talk at all, but her presence is somewhat comforting; it's much better than being on my own.
By the time we get to the Hob, (which is basically a collection of poorly crafted huts shoved on top of each other balancing very precariously-and yes, I think it's actually safer in the mine then the Hob) which is the network station of controls, I notice already a fairly large crowd has gathered. We sift through and find father near the front clutching a piece of shabby paper with his and our details on, so the guards can check who goes in and who goes out, so we don't steal any coal. If you are caught, it's instant death. Father shows it to the bald man at the front, who is covered with tattoos and reeks of cigarettes. "And Violet is...?" he grunts. Violet steps forward and removes her hood whilst looking defiantly at him so he can see her eyes; violet with swirls of indigo, her black hair tied back in a simple braid around her head. Beautiful. I think, in another world, she could really be someone. A great beauty. Instead, she's forced to work until that great beauty becomes just another weary face lined with worry, and caked with coal dust, just like everyone else in this godforsaken place. I pinch myself hard in my hand, so hard I cut myself. Good. I can't afford to think like that.
"So you must be Eden." He leers, without taking much notice of me. Violet is an exotic being- a rose in thorns, I am just a misfit. "Yes," I say, and pull the tip of my braid (Camp 402 distinct hairstyle) so he can see it's white. He reels back in shock and as he does I pull my hood back and jut my chin out. I am not as imposing as Violet, however I can cut a pretty mean posture, eyes like the roaring ocean, hair like snow, skin like marble, deft cheekbones and curved eyebrows. I glare at him, and then saunter into the rickety lift. It's moments like this that make life worth living. Father soon follows, and we wait until about 50 more people have jammed in before tattoo man presses a button and, with a jerk, the lift rumbles downwards. I find myself staring at the brick wall as we descend, and, as we travel further and further beyond, I stare sadly at the beam of light at the top as it gets smaller and smaller until it disappears into nonexistence. With a jolt, we arrive. And I know something will happen. I just know.
