Life Allowance

They always have me do the dirty work. The boss can’t afford to ruin his reputation. His hands must be clean at all times. But even though he doesn’t do the work, he calls the shots. He doesn’t sign my paychecks. I don’t get those. He signs my life allowance. If I do good, I get to live.

They killed someone else today. I don’t know how. I don’t get to know these things. All I know is that it was messy. That’s why I was brought in. To get my hands dirty. To keep the boss’s hands clean.

My clothes don’t even have a color now. They’ve faded too much to have one. In some places, they’ve worn so thin the cloth doesn’t even exist anymore. Even so, they hang loosely on my thin frame. You can see my shoulders and collar bone jutting out.

I’m armed with a scrubbing brush and a bucket of bleach as I enter the cold, dank warehouse. The concrete floor is stained a rusty color. My job is to make it spotless again. I won’t be allowed any food or water until I’m done.

Because I am so thin, and my clothes provide little warmth, I cannot help but shiver. I hurry to finish. While the place I am kept may not be suitable for even a cat, it is better than this place. Marginally.

When I am done, my overseer comes back. He’s got a twisted grin on his face. He raises his palm, and smacks me down. I’m far too weak to get up again. He stomps on my frail chest, and I can feel the bones cracking and crunching. Everything goes black.

My life allowance is no longer being issued. I won’t wake up.