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Leanora climbed the dusty steps spiraling up. She lifted her skirts with one hand, and in the other was a candle. She paused at each step, listening for any awakening noises, but the house was still. At last she reached the attic door. It creaked as it opened, and Leanora breathed a deep sigh of relief. At last, her own room. No heavy breathing cook Martha, or snoring Beth, the scullury maid. No Maclean to order her to do needless tasks, just to keep her busy. Nothing but the musty smell of the attic. She stepped inside, careful to stay away from the creaky boards. She had memorized the way across, so that even in the dark, she would make no noise. At last she made it to a small desk. Sitting down at it, she closed her eyes and let the sound of the rain on the roof envelop her. She breathed deeply, and picking up the pen on the desk, dipping it in the ink she opend the blank book. She wrote with care and dexterity
Once upon a time,
She paused to refill her pen, and held it in place over the paper. What next? What should she write? She looked down at her dark skin, barely illuminated in the candle light. What could she write? What would make a difference. The thunder cracked overhead, the rain persisted in it’s tireless dance on the world. And Leanora thought of her mother, her father, and her baby brother in heaven. The pen met the page once more, as she finished
I was free
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Once upon a time, I was free.
I was not bought or sold or thrown away carelessly. I was given freely and received freely. I didn't come with a label that says "What will you give me in return?". I had no hidden strings or clauses written in fine print.
That has all changed now. I am a fake. A knockoff. A slave to the masses of humanity that buy and sell me and lessen my value more with each passing day.
My name is Love and I am not alone on this black market of virtues.
Around me see others like me suffering the same fate. Hope, Kindness, Mercy, Compassion. They're all here. All cheapened and all slowly dying.
It doesn't have to be this way. There are still people who use us as we were meant to be used. Those people possess other virtues which are even more scarce than us. Honor, Duty, Selflessness, Responsibility.
The only thing is we need each other. If one of us we're to die the others would soon follow.
Don't let that happen.
Once upon a time, I used to be free.
I don’t remember it, I was too young. All I know, is I once was free. I wasn’t a slave, having to do everything to please my master. I wasn’t shipped from planet to planet, bracing for the lashes I would inevitably receive because I stood up to soon during auction.
I wonder what that was like.
Was I ever happy? Did I have a family, one that loved me?
I was born on the outer rim, I think. That’s why I’m a slave. New mothers rarely survive on the outer rim.
Freedom seems so possible. I see the soldiers around me, the generals, and see that they’re free. They’re just a few ranks above me - I could climb to their level, I could earn my freedom.
Only problem is, the slaves that do that are usually killed.
The radiation has been messing with my head too long. I probably couldn’t take care of myself if I were free.
But there’s still a chance, right?
Marsi said she was free once. She told me about the food. How she could make anything she wanted, and she could eat however much she wanted whenever she wanted.
Oh, to have a full stomach again.
But I’ve gotten used to it. My stomach is permanently concave, no amount of food could make it normal again. I’ve been working since I was 5. That’s when my earliest memory is. It isn’t anything special. Just me, opening my eyes and looking at my master. Then slapping him across the face. My first lashing.
I don’t like this, but I’m used to it.
Because, once upon a time, I used to be free.
I’m not free anymore.
And I’m pretty sure I never will be free again.
“Lullaby, lullaby, go to sleep my darling.”
I can still hear my mother‘s lullaby playing in my head. The last song she ever sang to me. I still remember the look she had in her eyes, a look that said ‘I’m sorry’.
I was too young to understand. Too young to understand the tears streaming down her face as she sang me to sleep. Too young to understand what was happening when she opened a tiny black bottle and drained the contents.
Too young to understand why she never moved again.
But I remember.
I kept that bottle and wouldn’t let anyone take it from me. I still have it.
I take the bottle out of my pocket now and finger the label. It has started to peel, and I can’t read it anymore. But I know what it said.
Poison.
On accident, my fingernail rakes away a portion of the sticker. I grimace, even though no real damage is done. This bottle is all I have left of my mother; they took me from her, the night she died.
And then … then I see it. Words beneath the label, words I can’t make out in the dim light. Shocked, I move closer to the candle. Maybe they’re a clue to my mother’s death.
So I scratch, scratch, scratch away until my fingers are sticky and the bottle is clear. Then I read.
“Once upon a time,” the bottle says, “I was free.”
… so much for that idea. I sigh, about to stick the minuscule bottle back in my pocket, when I hear a noise. I freeze.
Tap. Taptaptap. Tap.
My blood runs cold, and slowly, very slowly, I turn around.
There’s someone at the window.
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