You May Begin
Chapter 1

Roberta Young
Nov 1 · 5 min read

The speakers crackle to life and the artificial chimes ring out across the square: twelve long, dull chimes. Midday. We don’t have watches here in the Bones. No one could read the numbers even if we did. As people walk past me they fold down fingers as the bell rings out; counting out the hours. I do the same, curling my hands into fists and then opening up two fingers: eleven, twelve. It’s more out of habit than anything else — people would notice otherwise Mya.

Beside me, my mother does the same. She frowns and I can tell she’s worried we’ll be late. I want to reassure her that it’s fine, and we’re almost at the bridge. But I know it’s not being late that’s really playing on her mind…this is the day of the testing.

We pick up the pace and head across the square, ignoring the street vendors selling roasted chestnuts and cups of sweet milk. My stomach growls in protest, but I keep walking, heading down one of the side streets and past a shoe repair store that looks like it’s seen better days. The sign above the store creaks ominously, hanging over the narrow street. Above the sign, lines of washing hang between the buildings on either side, strung out grey sheets and well-worn work shirts. It’s pointless of course — they’ll be covered in dust and smoke before they even get a chance to dry.

As we get closer to the bridge, the streets broaden, and occasionally there’s a sign with an image of a human torso on it. Inside the torso there’s the outline of four lungs, indicating that we’re approaching the inner district. On one of the signs someone has graffitied a chain around one of the lungs, and sprayed the words ‘man is born fucked’ over the upper torso. I nudge my mother who sees it and purses her lips. I’ll tell her what it says later, once we’re back home and safe from any prying ears.

The streets are quiet today, and I wonder if it’s always quiet in this district. It unnerves me slightly, as I’m used to the hustle and bustle of the Bones. My mother breathes in deeply and smiles. She grew up here, and I can see that she misses it greatly. There are fewer shops here, and the houses don’t seem so crammed together. In front of each house there are actual gardens with flowers and shrubs; some streets are even lined with huge trees which have yearlong green leaves. As we pass a particularly fragrant garden, I can’t help reaching out towards the deep velvety petals of a huge purple flower. My hands brush against the cold metal wire caging the garden, and I catch my finger on the sharp edge of exposed metal. I curse under my breath and glare at the flowers. Every garden is the same — even the trees have high metal fences around them. To protect them Mya.

Fifty years ago there had been an outbreak infant deaths in the Bones, caused by breathing difficulties. Children began producing too much mucus; it clogged up their throats until they eventually chocked. Even with their limited intelligence, the people of the Bones knew it was due to the factories, and the thick polluted air that constantly hung in the streets surrounding them. There was a sudden influx of people trying to get into the Lungs, where it was clear, even to an imbecile, that the air was cleaner. The migration was predictable unsuccessful, but the residents of the Bones weren’t to be discouraged. It was common knowledge that the Lungs used plants to rid the air of toxins (although how this was done wasn’t fully understood) and so the desperate mothers and fathers of sick infants banded together and marched to the Lungs. There, they ripped out all the plants and flowers they could find, and carried them back in wheelbarrows and buckets, ready to cure their poor children.

Of course, without the knowledge of how to re-plant and care for them, the plants and flowers quickly died, along with the infants. Two weeks later, the criminal plant thieves were hung. There was a rumour that their bodies were buried in newly dug earth within the Lung district, and therefore as they decomposed, they would be fertilising the soil and providing nutrients to sustain the growth of new plants. Their deaths were considered sacrifices to the Republic.

“Keep up,” my mother links her arm in mine and marches me across the road. We’re avoiding the central streets even though it would be a more direct route to the bridge. Less chance of seeing your grandmother this way — she winks, although I can tell she’s sad about it. I just shrug and say I like the walk, which isn’t actually a lie. It’s always good to get out of the Bones and see the rest of the Republic, even if it is only for a short time.

After several minutes of walking, the street intersects with the main road and we join the steady flow of people heading to the Bridge. Despite its name, it’s not actually a bridge at all, but more of a huge tunnel, initially open to the sky but gradually sloping down to disappear beneath the ground. At the mouth of the tunnel is a sign saying ‘Bridging the Gap’. Apparently it’s an old motto from the past, but no-one seems to know what it means. Mother thinks it was something to do with education, but she’s not sure. Dad thinks it’s to do with teeth. I think it’s stupid. What’s the point in having any writing this side of the Bridge.

As we continue forwards I can’t help gazing at the images painted onto the stone walls. The one nearest me shows the black silhouette of a little girl, her hair in pig tails, standing on her tiptoes reaching up towards a book. The book has wings attached and appears to be flying. On the cover of the book are the words: No Gifted Child Left Behind. Further into the tunnel there’s another. This painting is of two boys playing with toy trucks. At first glance they appear the same; both are wearing identical standard issue shorts and shirts, and both have their brains clearly visible in the back of their heads. When I look closer I notice the difference: while the brain in one boy’s head appears normal, taking up the entire head space and painted pink, the brain in the other boy’s head is covered by strips of white bandage, and is supported by two crutches. The words, EDUCATION FOR ALL ABLE, are printed underneath in white lettering.

“Don’t stare.” My mother urges me forwards and I know she’s worried people will notice. I shrug her off. Let them notice, I think, and then feel guilty. She’s only trying to protect me. I am from the Bones. I am not supposed to be able to read.

Blue Match

girls wot rite

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade