Get Up. | Act I: There is No End

The ceiling looked down upon me. The brown-stained ceiling. That was the first thing I would see everyday. It hasn't stopped being it yet.

Slowly getting up from my uncomfortable bed, which was just some cloth and wool, I looked out through the opening of my room, to the outside world, wondering what had become of the Earth, and what could've been different about if this chaos ceased to exist. What would've happened then? As my mind raced across the dry wasteland that was the town, I quickly snapped back to reality when my mother cried out to me, shouting...

"Son, would you please come for the morning meal?"

"Coming, mother!" I replied.

Putting on the rags I would have to consider as my wardrobe, which was some kind of doublet, all dusty and sad, and some torn-up, loose breeches (pants), I felt kinda strange. Like I was putting on some kind of inequity onto my body.

I brushed it off quickly. Inequity was present everywhere these days. Why should I pay attention to this one now?

After putting on my wardrobe, I trudged slowly down through the fragile and loud stairs. So very carefully did I put my foot down and forward, for the fear that the stair would break… again. Once that tribulation was finished, I came around to where my mom was preparing the morgenmete, which turned out to be pottage.

As I grabbed the wooden metesticca and dipped it into the pottage, I searched for meat inside, hoping that at least there would be one.

Sadly, there was not. I looked slightly towards my mother, who apologized with her face, saying that "Your father hasn't come home yet. There was no meat to spare in the market."

"You say that every day, mother."

"That's because it happens every day. I'll try to find some meat, alright?"

I sighed. My father never really was around much. He was a servant to a wealthy landowner, who would keep my father around for very long periods of time.

Sometimes he came back with food. Sometimes, he came home for only a while. Most of the time… Well, you know.

After finishing the pot, I went to the washing fountain, turned on the water ever so lightly and washed the pot. I almost slipped and dropped the pot, but I managed to hold just fine.

I turned off the water, stored the bowl beside the other ware we managed to find, and told my mother that I would be off.

Of course, my mother said:

"Alright, son. Be careful out there and be back here before sundown. You hear me?"

"Yes, mother."

My mother is a kind one, as you can tell. She has taught me much of what I know and she has cared for me ever since I was born and in return, I help her out around the house every once and a while. My mother spends a lot of time in the house, however, which intrigued me. I'm not sure why but some people I know have told me that all women are considered to be property or servants to their husband, which would be the owner of the house, so they are expected to care for everything in their homes. I'm rather confused as to why it is that way. Why would my mother be considered property? It is strange the society we live in.

As I walked out of the steps of our crude, yet humble abode, I finally set my footsteps once again into the 'dry earth' that was surrounded by hollow faces from many races. I sighed once again, as I thought to myself:

"This place can't get any worse, right?"

Judging by the state of decay London was in… I already knew the answer.

However, that wasn't gonna stop me today.

Just like how it never has yet.