charges, scullion. The latrines are closed to the night shifts in the early morning hours. Did you forget that?”
Hue swallows as I am taken aback by her sudden change of tone—her voice reeks of regalia. Crawls with it.
“I apologize, sir, I—,”
“No matter.” she breathes, shoving past us as she finds the door. Throws a harrowing gaze over her shoulder. Leaves.
Hue rounds on me. “Do you know who that was?”
I open my mouth—but Hue's gone red in the face. Furious as he towers over me, peering down at me with a glare that's gone murderous. “That man alone has the power to make you a cook—a server—a minstrel or a watchman. And just as easily as he can push you up the chain of command—he can force you down. He can make you lower than a scullion—a drudge— even! He could force you up the road—put you in infantry, write you up as a criminal and put you in the stocks! Do you understand this, Kokoros? You've not only put yourself on the line here—but you've left me out to dry too! You've put us all in horrible danger!”
Hue shakes his head—sighs. “But, of course, it doesn't matter. Does it? Seems like nothing matters to you Felicity-types.” he brings a hand to his head and pulls it down his face. Mismatched eyes meet mine and I take a step back as he snarls. “You can clean this mess— alone .” When he leaves, it's like a draft has come in. A chill that makes me shiver when his footsteps disappear down the hall.
And I'm shrouded in darkness when the silence comes—alone with my thoughts. With what I've done.
…
I clean till the sun rises. Till Badger barges in and gives me a half-hearted thumbs up.
19. Speech Sounds
I'm not used to sleeping the day away, to waking up to waxing skies faded black. But when I spend the entire night scrubbing away a mess that always replaces itself come the following evening—I'm exhausted come the morning. When the sun rises and the kitchen's finally spotless, I hit my mat with thoughts of home—thoughts of sleep—and I black out; only for the routine to repeat itself again and again, night after night.
My palms are raw when an entire week has passed like this, my sleeping pattern destroyed. The moon becomes my new sun, as sweeping rays of golden light brings grogginess—while white light does the exact opposite. Wakes me up. Tells me it's time to work—to clean. And it's always the same mess—pink slime, overturned pestles, black rocks spilling from soot filled ovens again and again. Night after night. Nothing changes, and when three weeks pass by—fading into my memory, forgotten, like so many things I've tried to force away—I begin to wonder if I died all those weeks ago. When Akane tried to take me. I begin to wonder if the Fates have played a cruel joke on me—damning me to the four circles of the underworld—sticking me into a realm of monotony. Of the same thing done night after night.
But then, I remember the march here—the biting winds. The deaths. I remember the peach faced boy we threw into the river. I remember the screams.
And I see Hana's face—shrouded in darkness, her eyes glinting in dim shadow as she attempts to hug me.
I choked her—I almost knocked her out.
And Hue hadn't forgiven me for it. Ignored me since the incident.
And Hana—she hasn't contacted me. Or punished me for what I almost did.
I swallow at the memory, my saliva sour. Tainted with guilt. It tastes awful.
I'm cleaning the dark walls of a cauldron when I pause. My hand stuck to it's inky insides, my eyes staring at utter blackness.
“Ay, Kokoros?”
I blink. Place my left hand around the lip of the cauldron and hoist myself up.
Dusty hair looks back at me—Ken. He blinks eyes that could have been drawn with the careful curve of a brush. “You alright in there?” when I push myself from the side of the cauldron, I fall to the floor. Catch myself with a hand and force myself to stand.
As Hue lets out that high-pitched screech of a whistle
Hue swallows as I am taken aback by her sudden change of tone—her voice reeks of regalia. Crawls with it.
“I apologize, sir, I—,”
“No matter.” she breathes, shoving past us as she finds the door. Throws a harrowing gaze over her shoulder. Leaves.
Hue rounds on me. “Do you know who that was?”
I open my mouth—but Hue's gone red in the face. Furious as he towers over me, peering down at me with a glare that's gone murderous. “That man alone has the power to make you a cook—a server—a minstrel or a watchman. And just as easily as he can push you up the chain of command—he can force you down. He can make you lower than a scullion—a drudge— even! He could force you up the road—put you in infantry, write you up as a criminal and put you in the stocks! Do you understand this, Kokoros? You've not only put yourself on the line here—but you've left me out to dry too! You've put us all in horrible danger!”
Hue shakes his head—sighs. “But, of course, it doesn't matter. Does it? Seems like nothing matters to you Felicity-types.” he brings a hand to his head and pulls it down his face. Mismatched eyes meet mine and I take a step back as he snarls. “You can clean this mess— alone .” When he leaves, it's like a draft has come in. A chill that makes me shiver when his footsteps disappear down the hall.
And I'm shrouded in darkness when the silence comes—alone with my thoughts. With what I've done.
…
I clean till the sun rises. Till Badger barges in and gives me a half-hearted thumbs up.
19. Speech Sounds
I'm not used to sleeping the day away, to waking up to waxing skies faded black. But when I spend the entire night scrubbing away a mess that always replaces itself come the following evening—I'm exhausted come the morning. When the sun rises and the kitchen's finally spotless, I hit my mat with thoughts of home—thoughts of sleep—and I black out; only for the routine to repeat itself again and again, night after night.
My palms are raw when an entire week has passed like this, my sleeping pattern destroyed. The moon becomes my new sun, as sweeping rays of golden light brings grogginess—while white light does the exact opposite. Wakes me up. Tells me it's time to work—to clean. And it's always the same mess—pink slime, overturned pestles, black rocks spilling from soot filled ovens again and again. Night after night. Nothing changes, and when three weeks pass by—fading into my memory, forgotten, like so many things I've tried to force away—I begin to wonder if I died all those weeks ago. When Akane tried to take me. I begin to wonder if the Fates have played a cruel joke on me—damning me to the four circles of the underworld—sticking me into a realm of monotony. Of the same thing done night after night.
But then, I remember the march here—the biting winds. The deaths. I remember the peach faced boy we threw into the river. I remember the screams.
And I see Hana's face—shrouded in darkness, her eyes glinting in dim shadow as she attempts to hug me.
I choked her—I almost knocked her out.
And Hue hadn't forgiven me for it. Ignored me since the incident.
And Hana—she hasn't contacted me. Or punished me for what I almost did.
I swallow at the memory, my saliva sour. Tainted with guilt. It tastes awful.
I'm cleaning the dark walls of a cauldron when I pause. My hand stuck to it's inky insides, my eyes staring at utter blackness.
“Ay, Kokoros?”
I blink. Place my left hand around the lip of the cauldron and hoist myself up.
Dusty hair looks back at me—Ken. He blinks eyes that could have been drawn with the careful curve of a brush. “You alright in there?” when I push myself from the side of the cauldron, I fall to the floor. Catch myself with a hand and force myself to stand.
As Hue lets out that high-pitched screech of a whistle
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