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When the poor shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat their children.

Or starve, was the unadded addendum. Many had chosen to starve. Many had not.

And, when all the soft or weak parents had left their children alone, suddenly emaciated bodies stopped lining the streets and filling the dumpsters. Suddenly, for a time, the poor district thrived.

That was how it began.

Swift moved fast, keeping her hand curled against her chest as she wound through the smallest, moldiest alleys she could, neon lights and billboards illuminating her path in pink and red and blue. She kept her head low, her hair tucked under a still-damp flat cap she’d found in a gutter somewhere, her stature hidden under a great coat she’d nicked from a launderette. She would soon be old enough and tall enough that most would ignore her, but not yet. She’d heard that once they reached a certain age, their flesh lost its appealing tenderness, though she had no idea if it was true. She’d never tasted any. She could never afford it.

Another wave of nausea rolled through her and she instinctively curled her fist, though it throbbed in protest. She stopped, glancing around to be sure she was alone before crouching to rest a moment between two buildings. Moisture dropped from above, though she couldn’t be sure if it was rain, or condensation, or something worse. Should she tilt her head back, she’d see only darkness stretching above, stairs and pipes crisscrossing, the dampness reflecting neon light, mist and smog hiding the true height of the city.

She’d stopped looking up, stopped looking for light, a long time ago.

The sign of the building to her left, buzzing insistently, open, come in, browse our wares, didn’t give enough light to truly show her the extent of damage on her hand. All it showed was the worst, a mess of blood and bruised flesh.

As her stomach turned, she remembered against her will the man who’d spotted her a few nights before. He’d tailed her for a few minutes before she’d noticed him, and panic had spiked. She’d learned to recognize them – she’d had to, quickly. Sufferers of withdrawal.

“How old are you, girl?” he’d called after her, and she’d broken into a run, ducking under pipes and jumping deep gutters, but he was fast. They always were, despite their hunger-drawn faces and manic eyes.

He’d grabbed her collar, and when she simply shrugged out of her jacket and kept running, he’d managed to snatch her wrist and yank her back.

Mindlessly, he sank his rotting teeth into her hand.

Swift took a deep breath to calm her still-shifting stomach. Now, that man lay unmoving somewhere, where he’d stay. She, however, had to keep moving. Her hand had only gotten worse and, on the rare occasion she passed under a light bright enough to truly assess the damage, she saw traces of green in the messy teeth marks.

As she moved, she saw other figures traversing the city – other children. They instinctively kept their distance from each other. To gather was to draw attention, and they’d learned young that attention was never a blessing. But everyone around her had, for whatever reason, decided to risk it, same as her.

A bright pink neon star guided their way, towering above the surrounding buildings. The children swarmed to the halo of pink light and the building standing proudly there, a crowd of rats desperate for that last crumb of moldy bread. To many of them, this place was a familiar haven. To Swift, it was an eleventh-hour call; she had nowhere else to go.

She hesitated as she saw the volume of children, but her hand gave a sickening throb that brought tears to her eyes, and she pushed herself forward.

The patron stood at the door, welcoming the hordes of children with a gentle smile and lingering touches over their shoulders or across their cheeks. A thick lower-city accent greeted Swift at the door, voice roughened by years inhaling the toxic fumes.

“New face? Love to see new faces, not as many these days.”  

“I need medicine,” Swift cut her off, holding up her hand.

The woman cringed at the sight of it. She reached out as if to touch it, her eyes filling with tears, but she stopped short of Swift and when she spoke, her voice was mild.

“What a beast this city is,” she murmured, “So addicted to you it would eat you raw.”

Swift hesitated, unnerved, but the woman waved her forward.

“I can help. Come in, please, I will help.”

Swift swallowed the unease crawling up her throat. Despite the promise of help, her stomach knotted as she crossed the threshold. Children covered every surface inside, crowded on wooden benches and in the corners. At the far end of the room, pink light filtered in through the huge window, flickering gently over the children.

The few who knew each other mingled and spoke, but most tried to keep as much distance as the small space allowed, shifting uncomfortably in the crowd. Swift stared around her – she’d never even realized there were this many of them left in the city.

Perhaps there was still hope, she mused as she crept close to the outer wall, looking in vain for a quiet spot. She knew, as many of them knew, as they had been taught, that they hadn’t been meant to survive. Their role had always been to be eaten by their parents, consumed by the city. Thus, the poor would die out. After all, it’s not as though the lower city had the money to avoid it, or the voices to argue it.

It was for the best, they said. For the best of everyone.

And yet, enough of them remained. Enough parents, like Swift’s, had chosen to starve. Perhaps they could still make a stand. Perhaps they could still rise.

She was startled out of her thoughts as doors banged closed. The children organized themselves into the long wooden benches occupying the room in rows as the patron walked slowly, purposefully, towards the head of the room. When she turned to the children, she was nothing more than a silhouette, calling to them from the window full of hopeful pink light.

“Children,” she started, “you are expected to thrive in a city that is addicted to its consumption of you. Many of you know me by now, and trust that all I want is to help. To grant you a life beyond spending your days and nights huddling in fear for your flesh.”

A sudden break in her voice made some of the younger children flinch. Swallowing, she took a deep breath before continuing.  

“I hope… I hope those of you with new faces will understand and forgive me.”

Swift didn’t wait to understand what this meant, familiar panic spiking in her throat. She began to move towards the door, confused fear making her movement slow. A few began to move with her, more just watched her pass by.

“Whether or not you are eaten, you will be slowly digested by the filth of this city,” the woman went on, either not noticing the stir, or not caring. Swift didn’t pause to check.

“As we all are! A few of you may think you’ll be safe once you come of age. You think that soon, you can relax. I see you cling onto this hope, this empty promise of time. And perhaps, perhaps you will be overlooked by hunters desperate for quick coin, by addicts who don’t care whose bones they gnaw on, by the rats and the hounds of this light-forsaken underbelly.”

Swift had reached the door, only to find it unbudging. She pressed her back against it, afraid to throw her weight against it lest she draw the woman’s attention. Those who’d followed her didn’t show the same caution, the frenzy in the matronly woman’s voice seeping into them, panic seizing them. They threw themselves against the doors, uncaring of how solidly they were locked.

The woman only continued to speak, and Swift’s heart sank. The woman had planned all of this ahead of time. She knew there was no escape.

“But this is a hungry city, hungry and ridden with sin. It will only grow hungrier, and we will only grow more nourishing.”

Swift joined the others in their efforts, pulling the smaller children out of the way to shove the doors open, but it was futile. Swift tried to tune out the few broken sobs that had begun to ring out around the room, her heart twisting.

“This city will grow hungrier and hungrier until it eats itself, children. We need not be here when it takes that final bite. This city will no longer sustain itself on us.”

Swift stopped suddenly, noticing an acrid new smell, disguised until now under sweat and dust and piss.

“There is a city beyond this one. A city full of shining light and food for everyone. An empire which awaits us.”

She wasn’t talking about the rich upper city, Swift realized as she recognized the smell. She looked around frantically, noticing now empty canisters and dead-eyed children with wet hands. Numb, she let herself slide to the ground, uncaring that she sat in a pool of petrol. From the lower angle, she could see the pink neon light reflecting on the floor in a wide circle, splashes over the wooden benches, up the walls. Without thinking, Swift reached out slowly and pulled a whimpering child closer to her, wrapping her arms around its shivering body. Not much meat on this one, she thought absently, city isn’t losing much. Allowing herself a final weakness, she wished fiercely for one second that life could’ve been fair. That life could’ve been good. She was about to die, she supposed. She was allowed to wish for things.

“We shall go together, children. We shall hold each other, as family should.”

Swift closed her eyes, exhausted beyond measure. She’d fought for the right to live, every second of every day. She was tired. And when she heard the snick of a match, she didn’t even flinch.

Sparrow Grace

Image: From Pixabay.com a row of plain wax candles two extinguished with smoke spiralling upwards against a black background