‘Bread… milk… soup…’

Chrissy went over the groceries in her head a million times, practically engraving the list in her neurons.

Her mother was strict about these kinds of things. She always wanted this specific food list, nothing more, nothing less. The woman even went as far as giving Chrissy only the exact amount of Knuts down to the tax coin, having memorized it herself. So if Chrissy, in the event of insanity, were to decide she wanted to stray from the list, she would have to forcefully relinquish an item to do so, in which case her mother would most definitely notice.

Chrissy raised her hand, lifting her fingers to reveal the 7 Knuts in her palm, their dull bronze color looking hideously back at her. She hated money. She hated everything about economics. Why should she have to pay for food? For shelter? For life? Why should others decide for her that the moment she was born, she’s part of a prison-subjective-system?

Chrissy tucked the coins into the rough pocket of her light denim overalls. They sagged around her hips and had to be rolled several times at the cuffs near her feet to even fit. There were several places in which they had been patched up precariously with brown fabric. Along with that, Chrissy paired the only other article of clothing she had; a dark brown T-shirt that was frayed in many places.

The young girl, age 15, walked quietly through the secretive streets of The Loot. It was an extensive system of buildings that traveled for miles and miles, lined with shops, homes, businesses, etc. the sky was always covered in a blanket of midnight and smog, no dazzling features to it.

When Chrissy was very little, she had once heard a story from a stranger that, a long time ago, there use to be ‘stars’ and a ‘moon’ in the night sky. The old stranger had described the stars like hundreds of white sparkles, twinkling constantly, and it’s leader, the moon, as an indecisive man who changed his ‘face’ all the time.

Chrissy peered longingly at the ugly blackness before her, wishing stories like that were true.

But alas, she’s no child. Not anymore, at least.

With one swift turn, the girl straggled into the grocery market she buys from. She had to be discreet so she wouldn’t be attacked by a ‘lawless’. But these days, her mom says, lawless are all that are left.

The lights buzzed and blinded Chrissy as she entered the store, and she covered her eyes on instinct.

“Hey, Chrissy.” The old punk-clerk said from her left. Chrissy jumped with surprise and quickly looked at the familiar man, only then calming down.

“Oh, hello Mr. Oswald.” She murmured greatfully, waving meekly as she walked off. Her brown hicking boots clicked across the dirty, abandoned tile floor, that was once white but still glistened a bit from the strong lamps overhead.

Chrissy wondered what it had been like 50 years ago. She wondered that about the whole Loot, infact.

Mr. Oswald was a bald, middle aged man that ran the poor market, which only housed a few groceries, but that was enough for Chrissies mother, so that was enough for her, in turn. He looked like he was in a gang, or a lawless. Markings were painted across his skin like trophies, and the man always seemed to have a cigarette in his mouth. He also was consistently caught wearing a white tank top that was hardly white anymore like the floors of his store, dirtied with stains.

Chrissy located all three of the things she needed, grabbing each in the order of the words that played on loop on her head.

‘Bread…’

She grabbed a circular loaf of bread wrapped in clear preservative plastic.

‘Milk…’

She found a plastic jug of greyish-white liquid, lukewarm.

‘Soup…’

She picked up a can of red soup from a dented metal shelf, taking all three items to the register, like she does every single Monday. It was an unstopping, ugly, boring cycle she wished with everything she could end.

“Jus’ the usual, huh?” Oswald grunted with a deep chuckle, cigarette bouncing between his lips with each word and flicking its discharge onto the counter below.

“You know it. Couldn’t dream of getting anything else.” Chrissy half heartedly replied, fishing out the coins from her pocket. The 7 Knuts fell on the table like they owned the place, scattering about.

“Eigh’ Knuts.” Oswald reminded casually as he picked up each coin one by one, eyebrows furrowing when he only found 7.

“Yer… a knut shor’ missy.” The man said, crossing his arms.

Chrissy paled. 8!? 8 Knuts? Had she gotten so used to life now that she had gone insane and mistaken 7 Knuts for 8 as the usual amount!? That had to be it.

Her lip wobbled as she shook her head.

“B-but I-I thought… I thought it was 7….”

Mr. Oswald shook his head.

“Nope. Deman’s gone up. Be eigh’ now.” He explained uncaringly. He had never really cared— no one did. Chrissy had to remember that, and stop mistaking familiarity for kindness.

“Oh, okay. I’ll put the soup back this time.” She whispered disappointedly, shoving the can a few inches away from her.

The clerk nodded. “5, then.”

Chrissy stowed the 2 extra coins in her pocket and let Oswald take the 5 already out.

“Alrigh’ be safe ou’ there.” Oswald mumbled half heartedly as he put the coins a into a practically ruined register.

With a conscience of fear that her mother would be furious, Chrissy reluctantly took the now bagged food, hoping she wouldn’t be targeted for it on the way home.

The streets were desolate as always, with the exception of a few shady characters hiding in the shadows that Chrissy dare not interact with.

However, in the event of a detour, Chrissy found herself needing the bathroom, so she diverged her path to a small gallery of restrooms she knew existed in the alley way between an abandoned resturant and an old bookstore no one ever used.

Quickly doing her business in a rush to get home, Chrissy flushed the plastic toilet and wiped her hands on her overalls like always. She’d always felt wrong for doing that, not knowing why.

But before she could leave the restroom, she paused underneath the flickering light above her head, leaning up against the door where she had just heard ruckus.

Behind it, there were the faint sounds of a conversation between two men. Chrissy didn’t want trouble, so she figured she would wait to leave until they did as well. Until then, she thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a listen to what they were saying.

“—shipment?”

“Yeah. Just came in.”

“Oh, great. We need to get rid of it.”

“Mhm. Those are the orders. Mayor says he hates those stupid books. I agree. Who needs to know about all that bullshit?”

“Right? They’re illegal either way. How did you say they came in?”

“Some group of outsiders. They were traveling and our guys took ‘em down. They didn’t stand a chance. But they had all of those shitty books with them. We can’t have the people reading that trash.”

“Right. Where are they now?”

“In the back of the library right here. No one goes in it anyway, so that’s where we stored em. We’ll burn them first thing in the morning.”

“Are you sure we can afford to wait that long?”

“Yea, it’ll be fine. Stop worrying so much. Com’mon I need a drink.”

Finally, the sound of footsteps scurried away, but the thoughts scrambling Chrissy’s mind didn’t. She’d always been a curious girl, and this was no exception. Perhaps it was her weak trait.

She ran across the alley way to the back entrance of the library, finding the doors luckily unlocked.

On the inside, the abandoned book store was obviously pitch black, except for an old lantern and a box of matches on a dusty table.

Chrissy lit the match on the side of the small box, igniting the lantern and taking it in hand as she walked the length of the library, trying to find the back area of the store the men were talking about through all the darkness.

There were shelves upon shelves of rich mahogany wood. They were rare to come by, though Chrissy didn’t know why that would be. Was it like money? Why would a type of plastic be hard to make?

No shelf had a single item on it. She figured that’s where the books would go. She had never been in a library, however, she had read books with her mother before, back at home. So at least she knew how to do that much. She never thought the skill to be useful, though. Not until now.

Finally, she found the ‘back of the store’. Against a brick wall was an entire laundry bin piled high with books, leather binded and everything.

Chrissy picked up the first one she saw. It had a black leather binding, and golden letters on the side that italicized; modern animals.

Chrissy’s eyebrows furrowed. She didn’t know what either of those words meant, so she figured it was just a name of some person. She’d never met anyone named ‘animal’.

On the inside of the cover, there was a date written- 12/4/1907

Chrissy didn’t know how to do math or what that date implied, but she figured it was a long time ago. Her mother had told her they were in the 31st century, whatever that meant.

Her eyes darted to the first page, looking at the title picture. It was an oddly cute sort of monster-like thing. That meant this was probably a children’s fable. The monster was drawn in black and white, but it appeared fluffy, with large doe-eyes and pointy ears, 4 legs and a long rope like thing attached to its behind.

Turning to the words, Chrissy started to read, looking at yet another picture provided of the same creature. She didn’t know if she liked it or not.

‘This is a cat, or feline. This specific breed can also be called a house cat. They typically eat…’

Chrissies eyes kept training down the page, more curious by the moment. It was talking about this creature in facts, as if it were real.

The girl paused. This was a book written way in the past, supposedly. Did that mean back then, this ‘cat’ was a real thing? Like a type of person? Or was it something completely different.

Just as Chrissie was about to turn the page, she heard a click of machinery from behind her, and she froze, not even turning to find the source.

“Seems we have a rat.”

The familiar voice of the man from the bathrooms cooed, satisfied.

“Seems so. Thanks for the tip, by the way.” The other man from the bathrooms said, a smirk in his voice.

“Anytime, boys.”

She knew that ugly sneer, that drag of syllables, thick and lazy accent, stunt of words due to a cigarette. Mr Oswald.

Before Chrissie could think to cry or explain herself, she saw the pages of the book bleed red like magic.

And that was the last thing she thought of.

Magic.

Her world went darker than that gastly sky outside of the library, hanging over The Loot; the only place she’d ever known.

Maybe she would get to see the stars, now.