Chapter 11 - The Boy’s Grandmother/ A Novel

CHAPTER 11 — THE BOY’S GRANDMOTHER

FAINT — PART 3

⸻

Twenty-three years ago, snow buried F-Class District 2.

Garbage froze into the streets. Dogs barked between burning trash barrels. Men gambled in slush while torn WUG propaganda peeled from brick walls. Children laughed like this was normal.

It was morning.

Daley stood in the kitchen, exhausted, staring at his grandmother’s cheerful face.

“What’s for breakfast?” she asked.

“Grandma… you’ve already had breakfast…”

She blinked, confused.

“Oh I did..?”

“Yeah… a lot too.”

Daley turned away, dragging himself toward the living room. By the fireplace, he picked up two stones, frowning.

“How did grandpa do this…?”

She stepped beside him again, worried, lost.

“Are we having breakfast?”

Daley sighed.

“…haa… grandma…”

He forced a smile.

“How about we go for a walk?”

“…maybe to the town hall?”

Her face lit up.

“Oh— I would love a walk!”

Daley gently took her hand. She startled slightly.

“Will they have breakfast there?”

He laughed softly.

“Yeah, grandma.”

They ran through the snow together, past ruined homes and burning barrels.

“Hold… on!”

⸻

The town hall market was packed and tense.

“.30 half credits—look at this weather!” a shop owner shouted.

“I ain’t going any lower!”

“You’re doubling the price, bastard?!” a customer snapped back.

Daley reached the porridge stand, breathless but hopeful. He handed over a .50 half-credit coin, gripping his grandmother’s hand tightly.

“Two bowls please.”

“It’s hot, careful,” the merchant warned.

“…okay.”

Daley turned.

His grandmother was gone.

“Here, grandm—…a?”

The bowls slipped from his hands, splashing into the snow.

“Damn kid!—almost broke my bowls!” the merchant yelled as Daley sprinted away.

“Grandma!”

He pushed through the crowd, panic rising.

A trembling hand held a bitten apple.

Another hand clamped around her wrist.

“You thief!”

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

She cried as they forced the apple from her mouth.

“What are you crying for?!” one of them barked.

Daley burst forward.

“…wait—stop!”

“That’s my grandmother!”

“She took one of our apples—”

“And started eating it!”

“I should call the authorities!”

“I’m sorry…!” Daley pleaded.

“L-let me pay, please…”

He searched his pockets.

Nothing.

Damn… that was my last.

The crowd began to gather.

“What if I work… for free…”

“As long as it takes…”

“J-just let us go.”

“I don’t want your free labor,” the man snapped.

“We haven’t sold a damn thing all week.”

“Do you even know how hard it is to—”

“—get imports here, kid?!”

Someone elbowed him sharply.

The crowd was watching now.

“Let her go! What did she do to you?!” someone shouted.

“We’re not giving food away!”

“She’s stole!”

“And we outta teach her a lesson!”

A porridge shop owner stepped forward and flicked a coin.

“Here.”

It hit the man’s chest.

One shop owner shoved Daley and his grandmother into the snow. The other snatched the coin, grinning.

“…heh.”

“Ehh!—”

The crowd parted silently as Daley scrambled up, pulling his grandmother away.

“Get out of here!”

“Grandma—come on!”

Behind them, the apple sellers huddled, whispering greedily.

“We finally made something…!”

“…Pfft,” the porridge merchant muttered.

⸻

In a narrow alley, his grandmother sobbed uncontrollably.

“…ugh… uh… h…”

Daley wiped her tears, then his own.

“Grandma… please… don’t cry…”

“…you’ll make me cry…”

He forced another smile.

“How about we go see grandpa?”

“He’ll know what to say…”

⸻

They stood before a lonely grave, snow drifting down.

Marin Luther Daley Jr — A family man who stood for his own beliefs.

Daley turned away, tears streaming.

“Grandpa… you were right…”

“People are so mean…”

He covered his face.

“They were mad at grandma…”

“…and didn’t even want to listen…”

Grandma’s trembling hand reached for his.

He steadied himself.

“Grandma… please don’t wander again…”

“Just… try to remember…”

She smiled warmly, eyes swollen.

“…What’s for breakfast?”

Daley choked, broken and shocked.

⸻

To be continued…

⸻

Summer heat.

A younger Daley chased a ball across a dusty field. His grandfather laughed behind him, uniform crisp, revolutionary insignia shining. His grandmother stood beside him—alive, whole.

“Haha—haha!”

A boy who was taught his ideology.