Don't Kill the Messenger
Before I begin, I must inform you that where I live is not like where you live. Where you have lush fields of green grass, I have long stretches of cold, metallic floor. Where you have tall, sturdy trees, I have large metal poles with electric charges crawling over them. Where you have strong brick houses with cheery families tucked away inside, I have burned, scarred shacks with broken inhabitants. My world is not like yours. My world requires for you to be the best you can be, all the time, or else you will fall. I’ve fallen, many times, too many times to count. Each time I refused to pull myself up. I stayed down, because that’s how I liked it. I suppose that’s where my problems arose, but it’s also how I’ve come to be how I am today. Something I would never change.
I never knew my father. My mother would sometimes tell me stories of how he worked for the government, keeping the area safe from Manks, a group of thugs that have long since been broken apart. I liked to believe that my father was a hero on a much larger scale, fighting the Manks with super speed or strength. As I grew, this thought faded away, and I started to hate my father. I hated him for leaving me and my mother, I hated him for working for the government. I still hate my father, but I know it’s not fair. Maybe one day I’ll meet him and all my thoughts of him will be proven wrong.
My mother was a criminal. Not the murder type criminal, or anything of that sort, but more of a petty theft. When I was growing up, I refused to believe that she was a criminal. What she was doing was all for me, I was the only thing she had in the world. However, I’ve come to realize that no matter the reason, the outcome is always the same. She was a crook, and when I was 13, she was killed for it.
You see, death where I am is not like death where you are. Death where I am is as common as an afternoon shower, if not quite as refreshing. The majority of my friends died at a young age, killed off for coughing at a government soldier or, like my mother, petty theft. My world can’t afford to keep these people, so they tell us, as our government thrives to create the supreme species. Of course, this statement makes no sense, as there aren’t any other species to compete with. Well, except animals, but those were wiped out years ago for not wearing any clothing.
As for my story, that is yet to be told. For now I can say that I am Heiric. I’m 17. I’m a coureur for the Sub Level messenger transit. I deliver packages throughout the city. I live alone, usually sleeping in any dark place I can find. From morning to dusk I deliver without compensation. I don’t look at the packages, it’s against my policy, but I’m aware that what I’m delivering is usually illegal. It’s a risk easily taken in a town where people are executed tripping over a powerbox.