I am walking to work, like I have been almost every day for four years now. Like everyone over the age of six is. Well, technically I'm walking to the bus stop. There are so very many different bus routes that I have to take to get to work. It depends where I slept the last night and where I woke up in the morning. I mean I usually sleep at my house. But not always. 

I stay with the crowd, the masses of people with dead eyes, all trudging towards the places that will consume them for the next eleven hours, the places that will chew us to a pulp and then chew us more, that will suck on our sweat and our blood and our souls until we are left as empty as ghosts, trudging hollow-eyed back to the slums that will breathe life into us. 

I notice something strange on the ground. I know I have some time before I have to catch the bus, so I slowly make my way to the side of the road to pick it up. It's a smallish rectangle with shiny, smooth leather on the front and back. It looks like a book. I open it up and flip through the pages. So it is a book. That's interesting. 

I wonder if I should take it with me or leave it there. It's something that belongs to the overclass. It's something that the overclass owns. And I want it. I want it so badly. Not because I want to know about their lives and their world. I already know all that I need to know about them, which is that they could not care less about us. But still, I want to have something that's theirs. I want to taste a part of their lives. It sounds very interesting. And more than that, far more than that, it sounds rebellious. 

The book is not large enough to fit in my pocket. So I hide it under a pile of trash, and I make a mental note of where I put it. I have to get to work. Even though my hands stink right now, I have to get to work. Because without work there is no money and without money there is no food. Or, even less food than we had before. 

I take a deep breath and brace myself for everything that is coming after this. I have to provide for my community. Though I'm only ten, I have to provide for my community. We always have to. We always have done. We don't have the time to be children, we never did. I can't let my trepidation stop me. I can't let my dread stop me. I have to do what I have to do, no matter what I want myself. 

"What we're you doing back there?" a man with haunted eyes asks me. 

"Oh, I just found a book," I tell him. "That's something that the overclass people own. They put lots of words in them."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the concept. Why did you hide it in a trash pile?"

"Because, I intend to get it on my way back from work. I'll bring it home."

"That's an act of thievery. It's risky."

"I know it's risky. But I just really want to take something from the overclass. I want to have something that they don't want me to have."

"You better be careful to not get caught." There is deep concern in his dark eyes. There is worry etched over his face. 

"I won't get caught. I didn't steal it out of someone's house or someone's pocket. It was just lying by the side of the road. Someone carelessly dropped it. It won't be missed."

"Even if someone did drop it," the man cautions, "they might come back to look for it later. They might see that it was stolen. And that would put you in danger."

"They would have no idea it was me," I retort. "There are hundreds of people walking down this street. It could be any one of them. I really don't think anyone would spend that much time and effort trying to locate a single book. Not when the overclass could easily buy another one."

"That's true, but you have got to be careful. You have got to make sure that no guards ever see you with the book."

"I will be careful, don't worry."

"Hopefully this all works out for the best."

"Yes, hopefully." 

"So what do you think might be in the book?" A person with dark eyelashes asks me. 

"I don't know," I reply, "it could be anything."

"What are you hoping it is?" they ask.

"I hope it's a book about science. Science is very interesting, and I wish I knew more about it."

"I wish I knew more about it too," they reply, "there is a lot of knowledge that the overclass keeps to themselves, and that's not fair."

"But all the important knowledge belongs to us," I add in, "all the ultimate truths, the deep wisdoms, and the truth about love, it all belongs to us."

"You're absolutely right, child. All the important knowledge belongs to us. And no matter what, we will keep holding it. And the overclass will never have even a taste of our knowledge. Not with their greedy, greedy hearts and their hardened souls."

"That's so right. They think they know a lot but they don't even know what pain is."

"That's so right. Good luck with your book. I sincerely hope that you don't get caught."

"I won't, I promise." This promise feels like a lie in my mouth. Like a dark and heavy lie. I don't know why, though. I know how important it is to be careful with this book. I know how important it is to make sure that the overclass never finds me with it, never suspects that I have it. So why have I found myself not able to make this promise?

"Child, just please be careful." Their voice is filled with doubt and suspicion and deep, deep, incredibly deep concern. 

———

I am sitting beside the candle on the floor. Beside me the house is crowded with my family and my roommates. They are talking quietly in the nighttime, a nighttime that is too cold, that is always too cold no matter what. It warms me, the sound of their quiet, secretive voices filled with love and compassion and concern. It fills me with so much warmth, but still my body is cold. Still my body is cold and that is such violence. 

I am not joined in to the conversation today. I want to be, but I'm not. Because my curiosity is eating me alive. I need to know what is in this book. So, instead of talking to my family, I am pouring over the pages, making out each word with great effort. 

It's a book of stories. That much became clear when I read the first few pages. It's a book of stories, but a book of stories according to the overclass. A book of the stories that the overclass wanted to share with each other. Which means that these stories are not the same as our stories, but they are stories nonetheless, and it feels very rebellious of me to be able to read it. 

It is disappointing that this is not a book of science. I would have loved to learn about science. My people already have stories. We don't have that much science. But still, getting to have something that the overclass doesn't want us to have is still and act of rebellion. It is still an act of revenge, however small. 

I turn the page. I turn onto a new story. 

"There was at the time, an evil empire stretching across the lands," the book states, "an empire which was evil because it did not follow the commands of the Great Ruler." These first lines are interesting enough, but there seems to be a heaviness behind them. There seems to be a poison behind them. Yet there seems to be clear, fast-flowing water behind them too. "The Great Ruler had set down rules for the people," the book continues, "but the people of the empire ignored those rules. Thus them being rulers of the world was a horrible thing. 

"The empire had many people who they held as slaves. Because they did not follow the Great Ruler, it was tragic that they held these people as slaves. What was even more tragic though was that the people who the empire enslaved were the people who followed the Great Ruler. They were the people who glorified and upraised the Great Ruler. 

"And these people, they had to do much hard labour. Labour that numbed their minds. Labour that crushed their spirits. Most of their days were filled with the constant demands of the empire. 

"Now, the emperor had a daughter. That daughter was the child of the enslaved people, she was born from them. But also, this daughter had been raised in the palace, raised with the emperor as her father and her ruler and her head. She was an exceptionally pure soul, though she did harbour hatred inside her heart. The Great Ruler saw her and within her He saw His plan coming into formation. 

"The Great Ruler followed the teenaged girl when she went to market to pick up clothes and goods for the royal family. He stopped her, and He told her that she had a special mission. A mission to talk to the emperor and ask him to free the slaves. If he refused, the Great Ruler told the girl, then she would have to lead the fight against them. 

"The girl said that she was nothing compared to the power and the glory of the emperor, and he would never listen to her. The Great Ruler told her that she was pure of heart, and if the emperor didn't listen to her, he would be sorry. He then took her to meet a slave from outside the palace, and told the two of them to confront the emperor together when they could.

"The teenaged girl and the slightly older man went up to the emperor in his throne room one day, and asked him to free the slaves. The emperor asked why he, the emperor, should listen to them. The two rebels said that they had the Will of the Great Ruler on their side, and harm would befall the citizens of the empire if he did not listen to them. 

"But he still did not listen, and in one breath he told them both to go back to their labours. 

"The two then snuck out of the palace and back to the slave quarters under the cover of night. There they told the other slaves the news. The Great Ruler then came down to them, and gave them powerful magical weapons with which to wage war against the empire. The Great Ruler also planted the idea in the hearts of the empire's children to fight with the slaves. 

"And so the slaves and the children fought against the armies of the empire together. It was a bloody, bloody battle with many casualties. But eventually they won, and the Great Ruler's people were no longer enslaved by the empire. The girl died in the war, but her legacy endures forever."

That was a nice story. Much better than what I expected to come out of the twisted corruption of the overclass. But still, there is a heavy side to it, a poisoned corruption, a grating roughness. Yet behind that roughness, there is also something better, there is also something beautiful. And this beauty and this horror both twist around each other in the story. 

I like this story. But I like the stories of my own people so much more. The stories of my own people are warm, burning sunlight. They are cool, clear flowing water that soothes my bloody soul. And they are ours. They are ours so very much. They are love.