Cosmic Twists 1 (Old Version)

Part One - Lara - Chapter 1

Besides painting and writing, I often help her with making woven baskets from the reeds we grow on our allotment. It’s all we have as our offering to the council in return for food and supplies, because my mother’s well-being hinders our capabilities, although that does not ease the treatment we receive. Of course, we sit in silence as we weave, but the company’s nice, I suppose.

It’s only in a matter of seconds that I let the half-woven reeds slip through my fingers and fall to the floor at the shock of a loud, frantic knock at the door. I flinch, and look towards the door with dread. Something tells me I know what it might be, but I instantly push the thought away. It’s the first time in years that my mother looks me in the eye, and she sees the fear in my wide-eyed expression, but all she does is nod, as if she is already expecting someone. I watch her heave her aching body up slowly as she lifts her hand towards me, gesturing me to stand up and straighten my posture, before she shuffles across the cold, dusty tiles to the door. I’ve never had to do this before. Every previous year during the inspections my mother had ensured that I wait quietly in my chamber while they discuss quantities of supplies and things that weren’t in my best interests.

She quickly bustles about the room, occasionally moving or over turning a thing or two of the few things we possess here and there. There is another knock at the door, a little louder and more impatient this time. She turns to me, places a crinkled piece of brown paper just inside my palm and folds my fingers over it tightly. She holds my hand in hers for a moment, before gesturing to put it somewhere safe. I quickly slide it under the material of my blouse around my chest, and return my hand down at my side rigidly.

My mother unhinges the door and it bursts open immediately as a mass of dark silhouettes enter the room. Stood before us are eight tall men clad in long, dark hooded gowns. Two smaller men slide past where I stand, and they stomp past through the hall into the other rooms, searching for any forbidden valuables.

Meanwhile, the tallest of the men, who stands at the forefront of the group – who I presume to be the leader of this year’s inspection by the red string that hangs from the neckline of his cloak – removes his hood to reveal his silvery black hair like wires and narrow green eyes. I watch his thin lips move as he speaks, expecting to see his tongue flicker between his pointy, blinding white teeth like a snake. His piercing eyes are fixated on my face, though he is addressing my mother. I barely notice what he says, for I am distracted by the way his voice is over-formalised with just a wisp of Furdonian tongue. The other men stand rigidly behind him with their fingers resting on their hilts like statues, like minions.

I watch my mother answer the snake-like man’s questions, but no sound enters my ears. I look down to the floor and my eyes fix on the large silver buckles of his boots peaking from under his cloak, but they disappear under the black silky material as my attention is drawn by his false cough. When I look up, his narrow eyes glare at me, taunting me to listen to his slippery voice. He asks my mother about my father, and whether we’ve had any guests staying with us recently, to make sure we hadn’t been hosting any runaways from the minds; ‘delinquents’ as they call them. They ask the same questions every year, but I assume that the rate of running boys and men has increased this year as it is rumoured that the conditions in the mines have become worse than ever. Even if we were sheltering somebody, my mother and I wouldn’t dare to admit it. All I know is that bad things happen to those who take in the boys and men seeking asylum. And those boys and men, well, I can assure you, they won’t see the darkness of another day. They get chained up to the Great Walls that encircle Furdock at the foot of the mountains, and are left to the dogs in the night. At least they find freedom, eventually. Perhaps they already know that when they run in the first place. I gather from what I’ve heard that death is favourable to a life spent in the mines; excruciating heat, ceaseless manual labour, scarce food supplies and regular beatings… A life in the mines is a lifetime spent dying.