4214:

They call us Grays. Most think that the name caught on because of the color of the uniforms we wear, colorless rags that hang on our starving frames like the garbage bags we are forced to slave over. But I think it's because of the hopeless pallor our faces turn after years and years with no escape. In the case of those born a Gray, it seems they were raised without hope, and their faces look the color from the moment they begin work at just five years old.

I look closely, sometimes, at the Wealthies. That title came about for obvious enough reasons. When I watch them, they have rosy cheeks and smiling eyes and seem content, even joyful, with just being alive. I wonder what that would be like, having enough confidence in your place in the world, in the fact that your existence is something somebody is happy about, to smile for no reason other than the simple fact that you are.

Grays are like the shadows of the world. Wherever a Wealthy can be found, a Gray is as well, cleaning up the messes they make, serving as living punching bags for both physical and verbal abuse, serving them until the end of our lives.

I wish I was born as a Wealthy, or even a Gray, so long as I was born into one or the other. Then, regardless of which one it was, my destiny would've been set from the start. No choices, no regrets, no fears. Just birth, and death, and whatever we call this in between to exist in. Just existence, just pure, undiluted being, is a privilege I can't ever remember having. Not that I remember much from before I became a Gray. Really only one thing, too painful to think about

A voice jerks me out of my thoughts. "Gray! You! Get over here! I just spilled my paperwork everywhere and you're sitting there doing nothing about it, not serving your purpose! Do you want to be Reported?!"

I don't reply; I'm not allowed to. Instead, I walk over to the minor mess, bend down, and sweep together all of the papers. I check to be sure that the pages are flattened out and in numerical order, brushing off the specks of dirt. It takes all of five seconds. I hand the pile to the Wealthy. She takes the papers and sashays away haughtily, not granting me the simple "thank you" that I had come to not expect anyways.

As the woman walks, she accidentally bumps into a child and apologizes profusely, seeming like a kind and honest person. Maybe I've become naive since being forced into being a Gray, but her smile appears to be genuine. Like most Wealthies, she has a plethora of kindness, so long as it's being directed at another of her kind.

The child skips away with a smile. Her father, who is talking to the woman, doesn't notice for a few seconds. He realizes it and shouts after her sharply, "Cassi! Get back here now!"

Upon hearing that, I feel a pang of longing in my chest so acute that I double over, afraid for a moment I'm having a heart attack. Then it subsides. Cassi. How long has it been since I've heard that name? I knew a Cassi from somewhere, and though my memory of it is hazy and unclear, I think she was me. My only name now, if it can be called that, is 4142, the number I was assigned.

I almost begin to cry. Did I ever have a father? Did he ever shout something like that to me? I'm unsure; most of my memories before becoming a Gray have been turned to the wispy knowledge of a better time. I know I had a brother; his name was Luc, and my last memory of him was a shout to me: "Don't go! Please!" I know, also, that the reason I'm here has to do with the only way to do something, something vitally important, something that has to do with him.

I can't even remember what he looked like.