Copper Heroult, District Two [Done]
Sept 28, 2015 23:35:39 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2015 23:35:39 GMT -5
Copper Heroult
Twenty-Nine
District Two
Male
He felt as though he was left behind.
Remnants, like after forging of steal beams or swords, have little use but to be burned down again. Broken pieces that should be smelted into something greater, as though what was put together wasn't supposed to be exist at all. Copper had learned long ago that this district had little used for anything out of sorts, anything that didn't fit the perfection that was mandated. How could they march alongside one another if they were out of step? Harden your heart, his father would say, Or else you'll get forgotten. But was it painful to be the forgotten, if it meant they were left alone? The days filled with noise and violence kept the question returning, never burnt beneath the embers but always there at the back of Copper's mind.
Heroult was a name synonymous with fine metals, quality service, and excellent craftsmanship. The family was run by the three brothers, Peet, Tin, and his father, Al - each pushing the limits of what it meant to collaborate. That they could ever agree on the smallest thing was a miracle. Each had a child, and then another, until there were thirteen cousins in all, Copper being the eldest boy in the mix. Naturally he would be groomed to take after his father, to mind the store, to make something of himself after all the years of training had been completed. His father, for all of his faults, believed that training was a superficial effort. Copper would never be sacrificed to the games; that was for one of the late born children, if at all. Theirs was a family more focused on true work than the illusion presented by the careers of the district.
It was perhaps the only thing that Copper could respect. Hard work came in spotting the flaws in metal. The single hint along a stretch of steel could signal weakness, the color of gold was all about shade, carat, quality. The ruthlessness that his father presented in knowing, and only knowing, was a reflection of his determination to work. Be true to your work, and your work shall be true to you. The words hung on a crest that adorned the walls, forever repeated and not forgotten. Their manse stretched along a hill of the better families, those that had committed to their livelihoods not long after the war. History came with the Heroults; to have an H adorning his sleeve was akin to signaling that they were trustworthy. A man could shake his hand and know that they would keep their promise.
But greed has a way of cracking even the most sturdy of foundations. Copper was not long past reaping age when the brothers each made a series of investments to break away from one another. His father, feuding with the rest like children, squandered his earnings and then some. The mansion was no longer golden. Silver cups gone to be sold for firewood; chandeliers suddenly stripped of diamonds and glass to feed the embarrassed have-nots. Copper could only watch as his mother pleaded for an ounce of sanity with his father - that they would be out in the street before long if he didn't get the business back on track. She pleaded with Copper to speak sense into his father but, Copper was no more than a boy, then. While his body reflected strength, he'd never once raised his voice to his father. How could a man that had given him everything be so wrong?
The very suggestion was off-limits, until the bills suddenly were overdue, and the creditors began to refuse extensions. Food was now a luxury, and his three sisters were wearing not last season or the season before's dresses. Their home was barren of all fineries, no hanging drapes or old wooden chairs, but a sparse dwelling with iron bed frames and sloping mattresses. And here he begged his father, that they sell their home and start again, get what little money was left, and work hard - they could work hard, and all they had before could have been theirs once more. But there was no going back, not for a man so thoroughly embarrassed that the thought of starting again was failure. The Heroult knew nothing of losing, of becoming just a footnote.
Copper came to the mines because he couldn't keep pretending the world hadn't changed. The H that still adorned his tees and shirts signified nothing to the men here, whose hands were smudged in dirt and toughness. The ones here didn't speak about the glorious parties or the world that waited them. Day in and day out was the grind of stone, the ebb and flow of the carts making their way out from the depths of the world below. And in quiet whispers, they would talk about the present, because that was what mattered. No longing for a past, whatever had gotten them here, or imagining a future that was brighter.
Life was not easy, and at first, not at all pleasant. His hands ached and bled from callouses. His arms were always tired, feet were always tired. They called him a nancy for falling over and stumbling in his first few weeks. He was always too slow, always sweating, always falling behind. He would have rather fallen over and died than survived the insults that were hurled. What about all the hard work, he at last cried out. I'm doing the best that I can, I'm doing it for the rest of you. And the men scratched their noses and looked at one another, and they shrugged. There was nothing to their work, no reward for bringing out the minerals, the stone, all the things that were required of them. They did not break the stone to be rewarded, but to survive. Did any of them want to be there? Was it fair, was it wanted?
There was a clarity in knowing that they could work hard, and not have to be proven. That an H on his sleeve could be, just an h, and that there was no world waiting for him around the corner. He got faster on his feet, and he volleyed back when the men cracked wise. He was no longer a Heroult but just copper, the boy - then a man - that worked station number six, two kilometers down. His shoulders broadened, his hands thickened. His muscles grew on top of his chest, his arms tightening sleeves. What was once a boy destined for fine tuning stretches of precious metals had became a man slinging rock over his shoulder, and dragging ore behind him.
Tuxedos are far and away from his mind - overalls his dress of choice. Good company earns a shirt, and maybe a shower. It's a wonder that any of his sisters will speak to him - still pretending, in their heart of hearts, to be embarrassed millionaires. In the seven years in the mines, he's seen less and less of his once-was family. The world is the day at hand, not for the dreamers, and certainly not for those that exist only for status. What good would it do a man like Copper? He would bide his time, save what he could, and live what could've been a happy life.
