Earth Can't Hold Us All

Hinge's POV: Keep Your Income In Your Pockets

June 1st, 2080

"Does it matter? What makes something matter? What makes it worth all the trouble that it caused to have it?"

The gray yarn hangs loosely from my sleeve. I pull it; it begins to unravel.

"You're going to ruin your sweater, Hinge," the girl in front of me says.

"Like I just said, why does it matter? It's just a piece of yarn from a dirty sweater," I mumble. My vision becomes more colorful. The skin of the girl in front of me turns pink; light pink.

It shouldn't be pink. I look back down at my gray sweater, it's a creamy white color now. My favorite part of this trip; the gloom is bright.

"Oh, I know what makes something matter," I shout.

"What?" She sounds uninterested, she gazes into the water with a goofy and amused look on her face.

"The happiness you get from it, that's what makes everything worth all the trouble it's caused."

"Are you talking about what we are taking right now? Cuz it was a lot of trouble to get this cup of Grit." She tips her cup into her mouth, swallows, and tries to hold back from gagging. Grit tastes like old fish and hard liquor.

"I was talking about our life. What makes it matter?"

She stares at me with an unfocused look in her eyes. She's probably looking at my new colors too. She suddenly snaps back to her concentration on the subject.

"That means our life matters cuz we swallow Grit. That's what makes us happy," she says.

"Shut up. You're hurting my head," I yell.

"Oh man, already? We should get you home before you get Raged. Before we both get Raged," she says.

I notice the bruise on her lip, and remember the other day when I'd punched her. I was Raged and she was too. We'd beaten each other until blood poured from our noses. We did this for no reason.

She gets up slowly, stumbles a bit, and steadies herself. The bright colors of the world start to become dark again. Back to normal, back to the gloom. Her hair turns back to her coal black color, her skin is no longer pink. Her grimy, stained clothes aren't
a turquoise color any more.

"Nova," I say, "we should do this again tomorrow."

"No. Too much for me. I'm no addict like you." She gives me a playful kick. I kick back harder.

"What the-!" Nova rubs her shin. "That freaking hurt."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to. It's...it's the-"

"I know, I know. The Rage," she interrupts. "But sometimes I wonder if that's just an excuse."

Nova grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. My head spins, and my stomach feels like it's turning over. Grit's effects have a pattern. The first minute you feel indescribably amazing, the next minute you feel like you're dying, and then you feel amazing again. Nova grabs my arm as we walk down the alley where we usually gulp it. No one comes down here because it's between the fish scaling buildings. Fish. Ugh. I hate fish. Everyone here hates fish. There's always been too much of it, and at times that was all this town had. We eat fish, wear fish, use their oil, use them as bait for bigger fish. Their bones can be useful in unique ways too, just ask my Grandfather. His knitting needles are made from fish bone.

"You don't have to walk me home, Nova," I say as we turn right onto the main bridge. Crowds of people brush past us. Their faces are ugly, and show that they've all been through too much.

"Yes, I do. I don't want you going back to the pusher to buy more Grit. You need to keep your income in your pocket, not in his." Her face is like everyone else's. She's been through too much, and it's worn away the pretty from her face.

"I won't do that this time," I whine. My head is starting to hurt even more, it throbs, and it burns. It makes me feel angry, angry at Nova. This is what the Rage does. It makes you angry at people you love for the pain that is in your head. It's the worst stage when taking Grit, because you hurt others as if they caused your pain, when really you caused this pain and you're hurting because of it.

"I want to say hi to your Grandpa anyways," she says. I stare through the cracks in the wood of the bridges we walk on, I can see the brown water underneath. When the weather is stormy, the brown water splashes through the cracks in the bridges, and over the edges of the their low wood railings.

We walk through the Slum-Side sea-food market, where mostly fish, crabs, and sea bugs are for sale from the vendors today. Gross. All of it comes from the brown water beneath us, and the water further west into the sea.

Finally, we get to my neighborhood, a five minute walk from the market. Down bridge 203 is where my apartment in a stack building is. This is where we have to watch where we step, nobody not even the mayor will repair the rotten wood that we walk on here. No one on this side of town can afford it. Once, I'd fallen through an old board and straight into the water. My Grandpa pulled me out, but ignored the hole I had made, he said that it's the mayor's job to repair the bridges. When really, the mayor doesn't even bother to acknowledge the existence of this side of town.

I crane my head up, my eyes travel high into the sky to find my Grandpa leaning out of a window, waving at us below. I feel dizzy, the bridge beneath me starts to sway from the water it is planted above. There might be a storm coming in. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach, I lean over the bridge railing, then vomit into the already filthy water below.