Denim Ghazal, Disrict Eight.

When you have the face of a twelve year old, not many people will take you seriously. No matter how tall you grew, or how much chest hair you grow, if your voice never changes and your face does not make you look like an adult no one would ever really consider you an adult. 

Not that sixteen is an adult or anything, but it is definitely that age where being treated like a little kid is no longer acceptable. Especially when you are the youngest of three and the only male. Having one of your sister’s yell ‘Denny!!!!’ at school in front of everyone goes from cute to completely humiliating. 

Denim thought allowing his facial hair to grow would help make people stop saying he looked like a little kid. But much like all his other efforts it had firmly failed and only gotten him more chuckles from everyone else. Puberty had brought facial hair, chest hair and a deep voice but it had left him short and with that baby face that he hated so much. 

His mother said he had stayed short because he had started working too young. Like it had not been her idea because they needed the extra income when his oldest sister had gotten pregnant. But Denim had never been one to complain. There was no reason to. Life in Eight was hard enough already to have him whine about what he had to do to help his family. 

Especially for people like the Ghazal whose lifestyle was not exactly seen as optimal. Sometimes when he was at the factory he would have to ask for a longer bathroom break so he could do the salahs hoping that no one would find him out. It was probably easier to just not pray at work and avoid possibly getting in trouble but he was too devoted, and it was the only thing that made him feel at peace with himself. How else would he feel connected to the universe and feel like everything was happening for a reason. It reminded him to be good, and to be kind to everyone despite differences. It told him that peace was the way, violence was never the answer. 

Hard-working and naive, it was not uncommon for Denim to be taken advantage of by the older workers at the factory. Even after someone had burned him, Denim had a hard time saying no. He was a push-over, someone who could easily be convinced to do something that was completely inconvenient for him. 

But that was the way he had been raised, had he not? His father always said they had to be better. Helping others, and living in their shoes. Remembering that even though they did not have much, there were people who had a lot less so they had to always be able to share and take care of those less fortunate.