Les Marcheurs

Le Marcheurs

It was always a part of me, I just never ceased to believe it. Different in my World is classed as dangerous, how can you forget it? There are posters plastered to walls everywhere around the city.

"Evolve or die,"

"Danger is death,"

"If you're special you're dead,"

My Mother forced me to keep my gift a secret, telling me to tell or show no-one. My gift could have resulted in my own death and several times has it nearly gotten myself and those I love killed.

I am walking on death.

Its early morning yet I'm awake, wide awake at that. I stand in front of the dirty old and cracked mirror and use my finger to wipe off the thick layer of dust that's settled. Clothing is kept simple and bland, especially school uniform; I stand in front of the mirror doing up the final last buttons to the grey straight school-dress every girl is required to wear to education. My long brown hair is tied back in a Dutch plait, something that took me years to perfect. My icy grey eyes stand out from the rest of my facial features, I groan at myself; I'm not pretty or good-looking like the rich girls in the Southern side of the village. Yet some would debate.

Colour means a lot in our World, the poorest of them all; the ones who never have enough to eat, the ones you see hunched over dead in the streets are forced by the Government to wear ragged black clothes, the poorest ones they're known to us as "marcheurs" the French word for Walkers. They never receive the chance of a decent life, they're the ones forced with the worst jobs; sewer workers, mausoleum workers. Most marcheurs don't live past their twenty-fifth birthday due to the poor conditions they live in.

The ones next up on the 'scale of importance' are those who live in fair conditions, the normal ones. Like me and you, they're forced to wear grey; bland and boring, like their lives.

And then finally the rich and famous; the ones who live in the Southern side of town, the ones who can afford fresh meat and fruit, the ones who live in the huge mansions with far too many rooms. They wear a light blue colour and they could practically get away with murder if they wished. I've always considered blue as a snobby colour, and that's exactly what they are.

There are people like me; there must be. I've heard stories before, the ones who tried to stand up to the Government, the ones who tried to fight for equality. They all ended up dead, that could be my fate if someone discovers me.