The Fourth Life with Lauren Kirk-Cohen

Eye on The Pen I

I avert my eyes as usual as I walk past the pen. I hate seeing the runners, how their skeletal hands cling to the wooden planks of the small pen that separates them from the rest of us. The Masters say that they deserve it, that by trying to run away from the Citadel, they are insulting the Masters, scorning the protection they provide to all Lenar.


Lauren Kirk-CohenI glance around the dark mining cave, lit only dimly by torches the guards hold. I see the other Lenar, bent double under the weight of their loads, many with cuts and bruises on their arms and legs. They look utterly defeated.

In my peripheral vision, I see the eye perched on the edge of the pen. Of course, it looks nothing like an eye, but that’s what everyone calls it, as it is the thing that watches everyone in the pen. Once someone is put in the pen, they eye can see them wherever they go. That’s why no one ever escapes.

I understand the runners’ choices. The ‘protection’ the Masters offer from the outside world, past the walls of the Citadel, kills many of us every year through starvation and abuse. They want to take the chance that there is something better out there.

But I have seen too many of the runners the guards have caught starve slowly to death in the pen to want to attempt it myself. Everyone knows that outside the Citadel is a wasteland. Those who aren’t caught by the guards are never heard from again.

One of the guards strides past me, knocking me to the side so that I am facing the pen. I am about to avert my eyes again when I see a pair of bright green eyes staring back at me. The man in the pen can’t be far into his twenties – only a few years older than me at most. I try to look away, but he is whispering something.

Despite my better judgement, I lean closer.

Water,” he whispers.

I glance around. If anyone is caught helping the runners, they will join them in the pen. I glance back at the man. His face is filthy, but there is still some light of hope in his eyes, a light seldom seen among the Lenar.

Quickly, I pull my water skin over my head and hand it to him, my eyes flitting all around the mining cave, terrified of being spotted. I turn back to him to find him holding out the skin.

Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I’m Andrew.”

I’m Tracey,” I whisper back. Then I straighten and hurry away before any of the guards see us.

I don’t do well for the rest of the day. I try to concentrate on the mining, but Andrew keeps popping into my head. How long will he last there, without food or water? My inattention earns me a slap from one of the guards.

By the time we are let out, it is dark outside. I stagger home – well, to the bunker that about ten of us sleep in. I collapse into bed, trying to get the runners out of my head. This is insane. I’m going to end up killed if I carry on like this.

Unbidden, I imagine I hear again the softest whispers as Lenar brush past each other. They talk of making the run, of fleeing the Citadel and finding a better life elsewhere. They say that the Masters don’t want to lose their slaves, that they deny a better world outside the wall to keep us in with fear.

I shake my head, trying to shake the thoughts away. Even if there was something beyond the wall, that doesn’t change the fact that nearly everyone who attempts the run is caught and put in the pen to die.

I realise I am back at the pen with Andrew and the other runners. After about an hour of tossing and turning, I finally give up on sleep. I need to go back, just to see if Andrew is still alive. Then I can let the whole matter go and get the rest I need for tomorrow.

I pause as I creep out of the bunker, glancing up at the crack in the rafter. We hardly get enough food to survive, but those of us in the bunker have agreed to scrape and save whatever food we can, for the Masters frequently become angry with us and punish us by withholding food.

I reach quickly up into the rafter, pulling down a few pieces of bread. I grab my water skin and hurry out into the night, hoping that Andrew is still alive.

Continues... Eye on The Pen II

More on Lauren's writings: follow her at Lauren Kirk-Cohen's Blog


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