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Morning twilight, which is the among the only hours of light cycle that one cannot see well, is but a ticking clock waiting to chime in its seconds before the hour—a moment always overlooked, but remains the most still trice before the chaotic stroke of metal. My spine arched like a bow as I keeled over the tiny, florid text which my eyes quickly scanned across. Yellow light bent and contorted as I swiftly turned the page, causing the wick-fed energy at my side to waver like a flag in a springtime zephyr. My hand shot over to shield the dwindling flame; it was the last one we had, and the sun was not due for about hour. I rested my elbows on the compressed straw mattress that rested on the earthen floor of our hovel. A breeze gushed through the hole in the wall that served as a window and stole the candle light away with it.

My body rolled out onto the hard-packed soil and I laid on the moonlit surface, breathing quiescently. I closed my eyes and felt my chest ebb and flow, gently displacing my wavy blonde hair with each intake of air. I sat up and pulled off my shirt—shivered a bit, as well. The morning is such a imperturbable time of day. Throwing on my Service clothes, which were bundled in a small heap in the corner of my bare room, I stood. Donned in a long beige tunic, a blue shawl-like neck warmer, legwarmers, and snug brown leather pants, I crept over to the adjacent room.

I touched Ma’s arm. She grunted loudly and rolled over in her coverings. I looked around my surroundings and gave her arm another good quake. Ma’s eyes slipped open and she sleepily let a blended series of words spill from her full, barely parted lips.

“I must be leaving,” I stated, kneeling at her side, only realizing the stiffness of my speech when they had already been spoken. The words drifted through the dusty space between us and into her ears. I allotted time for the sound of my voice to resonate in her mind.

“I love you,” she whispered in her sleep.

I bit my lip. “As I, too,” my lips uttered as I squeezed her hand. Her heavyset body and chocolate brown skin was quite contrary to my light toned and tiny figure. We do not resemble each other at all; I could distinguish this even in the darkness.

Some part of me tends to cogitate that I’m adopted, but I know that was an incredibly frivolous thought and was not true, despite, well, everything. For at least such frivolities have been innately spoken to me as false. I’d been here all of my life; there was no other explanation. I do know that I had another sibling, but I can’t recollect much about her.

“You is born special, baby. An ambassador to the minority. Albino,” Ma told me one time. larger words are impressive to use, so it struck me by surprise when she said minority and ambassador. Then again, I came home on the weekends and give her new words I picked up during the week. Articles of speech that would be trifled upon townsfolk’s tongues were like priceless gems to her.

“You’s gon’ be late,” she murmured as I left her to sleep.

I groaned, then briefly brushed my teeth with a paste made from miscellaneously crushed plants, splashed my face with cold water, then perched myself upon a stool at the tiny main room table. The house (if it could even be defined as such) only has three rooms—our bedrooms as well as a main room which contained our table, a bench, and a sink that lacked the royal conveniences of running water. Atop the table was a primitively crafted wooden bowl with contents that resembled oatmeal. I hastily and vigorously consumed all of the burgoo, plaited my hair in two sections, put on my Service hat, then jogged out the door, nearly swinging the hoary thing off of its hinges. “Thank you, Ma!” I yelled from outside while bounding down the darkened path.

“You be good now, Frei, and don’t go off running with no white boy.”

My head veered back to see Ma washing my bowl in our stoup-like sink. I smiled and waved goodbye. Smiling, she sat down on a chair and watched me walk out towards Ess. Once Ma was woken, she was up.

We had talked that weekend. We always talk, I mean, but not about anything personal. She and I don’t put bonding time to waste with individual grievances. I don’t fully comprehend how the “white boy” part comes into play, however. I assume it was in jest. The earlier verbal exchanges concerning my bit of attraction for the prince of the area were quite blithe.

I assume the benediction came from the fact that we live in the lowest class of society because of our external appearances. In sociological terms, I guess that’s the way it’s been for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The dark-skinned ones were used for labor outside of the town. It was simple. That was how it functioned and no one protests. It is said that the treatment of the Black Labor Force is of fair quality. I try not to ponder the credibility in that statement. My father and sister were taken for that very reason many, many years ago.