Let's Fabricate.

When she got home, as usual the first thing Rochelle did was go to the bathroom. Not for any normal needs may I point out, she went to the bathroom because it was quiet. In her house, if you can call it a house, lived her mum, her dad, her three brothers and her aunt. Keeping in mind everyone lived underground all packed together in city centres, the houses were quite small. Rochelle happened to live on the ninth floor of a block of flats. But as they are underground, instead of building up from the first floor they had to build down. So Rochelle and her family are currently at least ninety feet down, but hey, for them it’s normal.

So Rochelle scarpered to the bathroom as usual, locked the door and slumped down the wall. She created a library in her head but she was aware of what was happening to her, what would happen if she told anyone who wasn’t aware of the situation, and more importantly what would happen to her family. So like most self-degrading teenagers she took it out on herself. By using a razor. Her arms were covered in scars, as soon as some faded others coated them.

After about ten minutes she left the bathroom, there was blood on the wall but she didn’t care. It was partly her parent’s fault, everyone was blindfolded whilst being transported from the ships. But Marcus and Olive, the parents, obviously thought that a toddler could do no harm. Sadly, they were wrong.

Olive looked at her daughter with concern constantly welling her eyes, Rochelle didn’t deserve this, no one did.

“Hey honey,” she said, in her mousey voice. Olive had never been the talker of the family. That was always Marcus’s job; he disciplined the three younger boys, Dylan, Tyler and Tom, but never hit them. Not because it was against the law, because who hits their children? It’s wrong and the legacy will just live on with his children beating theirs. Plus the kids were triplets, all five years old, so hitting them would just cause more hassle than necessary.

“Hi mum,” Rochelle replied, a small smile crossing her face. As much as she hated her family for doing this to her, leaving her able to see when she was so young, she also loved them with all her heart. Especially the boys, who couldn’t love three five year olds? I mean come on, get a soul.

Olive looked her daughter up and down, seeing the small drops of blood dripping down her hand, leaking through her jumper. She sighed.

“You really should stop you know darling, it’s not going to he-’’

And out walked Rochelle. She decided to look for Marcus. He was always down the black market at this time. The family wasn’t rich, the only money they had was brought in by Anne, the aunt. She was the only one with a job, working from the home in the makeshift study she had made. The study was just an oversized cupboard with a desk and an ancient laptop in it. With a chair barricading the door. No one ever saw Anne, but no one really cared about her either to be fair. She was only here because it is illegal to live alone, apparently it takes up too much room for a single person and is therefore a waste when there are whole families living on the streets. If it was the only thing the Illuminati did that was good, they kept their citizens out of poverty.

Rochelle walked back to the city centre, but this time taking a different route, skitting through back alleys and dodging street lamps. There was a curfew, the current time was past the curfew.

When she arrived Rochelle flung herself into her father’s arms; we all know you shouldn’t have favourite family members, but we all know we have one.

“Hey daddy,” she spoke into his chest.

Rochelle was quite small by the way. She had been 5’4 for at least seven years now. She was the tallest person of her age she had known, which to be fair, she didn’t know many people her age seeing as she didn’t go to school, but then her growth had just ground to a halt.

“Well hello chicken,” Marcus replied, his talking was slurred from all the drink he had downed that night, Wednesday was drinking night. “What brings you here then?”

“Nothing much, just wanted to get out,” she grinned, now standing up, stretching her arms high into the air.

Marcus noticed the fresh scars, the faint blood droplets oozing from them. But he also knew that trying to talk to Rochelle about cutting would get him nowhere, so he just shooed her into her normal corner and let her fall asleep on the sacks of grain.