The metallic torture device shackled around Freddy's head rang, signifying the arrival of yet another unwelcome morning.
The filthy sheets of his tiny bed shifted. With much effort, he freed his arm from the lukewarm embrace of his thin covers. Then, he turned the crank on his headgear alarm. Round and round, it went, speeding up as frustration overpowered his morning weakness.
The sound of crystal vibrating inside grew brighter and eventually—
The mechanism triggered, the ear-grating ringing stopped, and the lock released, allowing him to finally take it off. He opened his eyes. The depressing gray ceiling of his room greeted him, held up by the tight walls on each side, its corners adorned by black mold. His bed was tucked in a tight corner where he couldn't even spread his arms to their full length.
The only light source was the lick of sun peeking through his shades—just enough to see where he was. Pulling the misery-inducing sleep annihilator off his head, he released his shoulder-length, greasy, black hair into a short-lived freefall and shuffled to the right, getting up.
Luckily, he was of average height. If he were any taller, he couldn't stand upright with the low ceiling.
Scooting sideways to reach the window, he twisted the handle. It opened, allowing the sobering morning breeze in, carrying the smell of city-brand petrichor. Finally, with a lift of the hatch, the shades were pushed aside, and the full power of the dawn, already shining over the tall buildings, entered his room.
The sky was particularly blue that day, and the clouds of yesterday's rain still hung on the horizon, journeying to distant lands. Glittering reflections scattered off the floating buildings to the right and jumped off the rooftop puddles everywhere else.
"Fuck this shit, man," he groaned. "Why do I gotta work today?"
The small studio apartment, or as he preferred to call it, the dungeon cell he lived in, was an old, tiny, cramped living space—and the only home he had.
The basket with his clothes hung off the low ceiling. Below it was the old, broken chest he kept his stuff in. It wasn't that big, yet it occupied the lion's share of his room, leaving but a tight, L-shaped path from his bed to the door.
Picking his work clothes out of the basket—the white shirt, black pants, and red vest—he took a whiff of their stench as he brought them up to and away from his face.
He raised an eyebrow. "Rancid up close but unnoticeable from a distance," he evaluated. "I hope they don't catch me borrowing the sample perfume again."
After draping the uniform over the window and praying it aired out some of the stink, he took another step over a stool and entered the "kitchen" part of his room—a fridge cramped between the garbage can and the entrance to his apartment.
He dragged the stool over in front of the fridge. Opening it and bumping the door into the chest, he grabbed the stale bologna sandwich he had half-eaten yesterday. Closing the fridge again, he pulled the chair closer and sat on it, using the small cooler as a table.
His seat was low, and he didn't have the space to sit straight, so he ate head pushed sideways, just barely past the ground.
Once done, he gathered the crumbs into his hand and threw them into the trash. The can smelled horrible, with much garbage compressed into it to save on paying the disposal fee.
He took his clothes off the window and a toothbrush from a glass on the fridge. Then, he put his slippers on, squeezed between the cooler and the chest, and left his apartment, still in his old pajamas.
The moment he opened the door, his stomach dropped.
His neighbor, an overweight middle-aged man with a massive mustache, was chatting with an older brunette woman outside the toilet. The young man instantly looked at the clock on the wall above the bathroom.
6:43 a.m.
Fright turned to anger, and he marched to confront his neighbor. "James, what the hell, man!"
The older man jumped back slightly, turning to face him. "Good morning," the man greeted him cautiously as he leaned back. "Is everything all right?"
He shoved the older man toward the bathroom. "Get in the toilet and hurry up!" he urged. "I'm next on the schedule!"
The man waved him down. "Relax, nobody will get on your back for being a bit slow today," he said with a chuckle.
"I'll be late to work!" he declared, accenting the final part of the statement to make sure it sank in.
"Work?" The man frowned. "Did you forget what day it is today?"
His tired, angry glare answered that question.
The older man awkwardly coughed as he shuffled into the toilet, hurriedly closing the door behind him.
He waved weakly at the older woman still outside, doing his best to put on a pleasant expression. "Hello, Sharon."
"Hey there, Fred," she returned the greeting amicably. "How unpleasant that you have to work on the anniversary! I'd quit if I were you."
"Oh, believe me, hahaha..." He laughed lightly. "I'd quit, too."
She chuckled and turned around, waving him goodbye. "Bye, Fred! Have a good one! Hope they don't hold you up too long!" Just as she was about to rush up the stairs, she paused and turned to him. "Hey, you could join James and I for drinks tonight if you don't mind!"
"Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll pass," he declined politely. "Still, uhm... hope you two have fun!"
"A shame... I assume you already have plans, then," she said with a wink. "Well, have fun!"
His wave dropped into a light slap on his thigh, and he leaned against the wall as she disappeared up to the third floor of the building.
Plans, huh...?
As the clock ticked, he heard his neighbor singing in the shower. His foot impatiently bounced on the ground, and he gritted his teeth a bit harder every time a minute passed.
6:48
6:49
6:50
That marked the start of his turn, yet he could still hear the water running.
6:51
6:52
6:53—
The door unlocked, and just as James was about to apologize for taking his time, he rushed past him and locked the doors. He glanced at the toilet, angrily squeezing his buttcheeks. Looks like he'd have to crap on his break again.
He undressed so swiftly that he heard a slight tear from his pajamas. Into the shower he went. Even though he turned it to the maximum temperature, the water was still tepid.
At the very least, the landlord provided clean towels every day, one per person, neatly stacked on a pile. Sadly, the shitty people that lived in this complex frequently helped themselves to more than one, leaving the last few on schedule with a pile of damp, stinky cloth.
Even he wasn't entirely spared by this. Once, he had grabbed a used towel and, sadly, ran into the part someone used to dry their genitals, wiping his face with it. Thankfully, he would be spared such a fate as he was on the day shift again.
After drying himself and angrily wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked to the mirror. He paused once he got a good look at himself. Just a week ago, his twenty-first birthday had passed. Hard to believe.
Be it the stress or the acne pock marks and scars that spread over his face and body, he looked aged and weathered; his black hair, draping down the sides of his head, complemented the deep bags beneath his dark-brown eyes.
There was no time to ponder his looks. Nor did he care about them. In his opinion, there was no such thing as being "ugly." Only poor.
Toothpaste on brush, brush into mouth, and a short, furious scrub later, he was dressing.
***
The small line of people watched the manager lambast Freddy for a few minutes, and the woman was given a coupon for the inconvenience.
He rushed to apologize when the woman walked out, but the manager waved him off, whispering to ensure none of the customers could hear him and speaking fast as he was in a hurry, "You have a good record, don't worry, I get it, mistakes happen; I won't dock it from your pay or anything," the manager blurted out and ran off in a rush. "Keep your eyes open, and don't do that again."
"Oh... okay."
That didn't make it any less stressful... or embarrassing. The next annoying, rude bastard rushed over before he had time to recover, pulling dozens of cans of beer out of the shopping cart.
This would be a long day, indeed.
***
After spending fifteen damn minutes waiting for Jenny, the chronically late night-shift worker, to take over, he finally headed home.
His hand gripped the plastic bag holding the can of beans that would be his dinner tonight, and he walked on, leaving another exhausting workday behind.
Muffled, loud music could be heard from many directions, and he couldn't help but feel particularly lethargic today.
The 200th anniversary, huh...?
"Maybe I'll cut loose for the 300th one," he joked, but a considerable part of him was serious.
Perhaps that was why people celebrated the Rift. The possibility of living to see something a hundred years in the future would have been an incredible privilege for anyone two hundred years back.
Sighing profoundly and keeping his head down, he reached the opulent 25th district. The moment he approached the turn, he had to stop immediately.
"Uh-oh..."
There was a fence. And it was blocking the path through the district. He could feel a headache setting in, but he calmed himself.
A man walked up to the fence and casually jumped over it as if it weren't there, startling him slightly. Turning to the right, he spotted a short line of people looking to get in and a guard letting them through.
Just keep it cool, Fred. You got this, he told himself as he stepped into the back of the line.
It went by rather swiftly, and soon enough, he waved at the guard and tried walking through, but the man stopped him immediately. "Please provide identity verification or confirmation that you have business inside."
"What do you mean?" He tried playing dumb.
"This is a private district. Mortals aren't allowed entry without permission."
Fucking what!? Since when!? he raged in his mind, but none of that showed outwardly.
With a polite smile, he scratched his head and chuckled awkwardly. "Oh, hahaha, sorry, sorry, I am going to a party tonight, so can you just let me through?"
"Please provide a ticket or name of the person that invited you," the guard requested as he pulled a list out of his suit, and Freddy bit his lip.
"His name is John."
The guard raised an eyebrow. "John, who?"
"John... Smith."
"Nobody by the name of John Smith is expecting guests," the guard declared.
"I'm not a guest. I'm a... uh... an en—ter—tainer? Yeah, I'm a dancer. Of a, you know"—he waved his hands around his torso—"special kind."
"Sir, I will have to ask you to step away."
The line behind him grew longer, and he made a last-ditch effort. "Insolent! Do you have any idea who my father is!?"
Glancing at the beans swinging in the bag he carried in his hands, the guard gave him a flat look, then gently but firmly pushed him to the side.
Fuck! he screamed internally as he hesitantly turned around, tightening the grip on the bag in his hand.
A few people in line laughed at him, but that was far from his biggest problem.
Biting his fist in frustration, he walked away from the gathering crowd and sat on a short wall. He wasn't here for sightseeing; he had to go home! Glancing to the left of the Bastard Barricade, then to the right, he felt himself shaking a little, and he had to swallow a lump in his throat.
It was already nearly 8 p.m. The 25th district wasn't that big, but it was a different story if he had to walk all the way around it. If he went left through the rest of the 24th district, where he was currently located, he would have to add another forty minutes to his daily routine, both to and from work. With his work time, he barely had three hours of free time a day, and his chores devoured most of that. Even that night, he was supposed to head to the damn laundromat to wash his clothes.
Taking deep breaths and clenching the bag, he murmured into his chin, "Calm down, Freddy. You got this."
He could also go right, adding barely another ten minutes to the walk. Not that he was a big fan of classism... but right... that was the bad part of the city.
The 26th district was quite firmly walled off from the twenty-fifth. And that simple wall hop made all the difference in the world.
He wasn't unlucky enough to get robbed... Hopefully.
"Whatever..." He breathed out as he got up and walked right.
What robbery? The only thing of any value on his person was a damn can of beans. And he'd rather lose a kidney or two than walk home for over an hour.
As he proceeded, it wasn't long until the sounds of music grew more distant and muffled. The exact line that separated the 26th district was clear as day, given that that was precisely where the street maintenance ended.
Ragged roads, worn-out buildings, and trash lining the corners reminded him of a bittersweet part of his life.
Lots of people walked the streets. Teens gathered in every corner, and loud talking could be heard everywhere. He couldn't help but feel bad for his earlier thinking. All he saw here were people having fun and living their best lives.
But he felt a lot less sorry after he ran into a group of three drunk, shirtless men who hugged him, grabbed the bag of beans out of his hands, and ridiculed him, screaming "boy got beans" and the like.
Thankfully, they returned his food, and he went on his way. Beans wouldn't be on the menu for a while again. Eventually, he reached a turn and took another quick shortcut.
"Oh, yeah, this is where Greg's place used to be," he mused.
They used to take him there when he was little. Yet another reason not to walk this route.
Walking through the relatively narrow space between the buildings, he noticed someone had left their doors open. He was somewhat taken aback by how bright the inside of that place was.
The doors were massive, and the light was far from natural. Some part of him screamed that something was wrong, but he was too tired to put two and two together.
It was only as he walked past it, turning his head and reflexively violating the privacy of the supposed owners, that he realized this was no home at all.
His grip on the grocery bag tightened, and his legs froze.
The world spun as he stepped right in front of a portal leading onto an endless, open field of golden grass.