Shirley's Monologue

Words: 1073
Pages: 5
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It is close to four when I wake. My bare feet touch the floorboards, and I realize that nothing has changed. My bed, placed in a subtle corner of the small room my father and I share, is illuminated in the still moonlight. I step over the discarded bowls and half empty bottles placed carefully next to my father’s head, like a glass security blanket of our circumstances. He grunts, twitches, and mutters my name. “Geoffrey,” he stutters. His words are slurred and empty. “Pour me a drink.” I ignore him. “Go back to bed, father,” I say hesitantly. He rolls over on his blanket and begins snoring. I walk to the stove, and heat up enough porridge for my breakfast. It falls into the metal bowl slowly, like an apology. Back on my bed, I take a spoonful of the porridge, and take a bite. The warm goo inches down my throat like a mirror of the garbage that runs down the street, and the alcohol that suffocates my father. Then, slowly, I slip on the wholly shoes that I use for work, and wish my father farewell. Off to the factory. I am sixteen now, and already I have outlived many. It is as much of a reassurance as I can gain. The dirty streets of Manchester have been my home since I was put to work some time ago, at the factory where my mother promised I …show more content…
I walk past them gently, and enter through the front of the factory. The statement is true; whom could ever become used to the almost nonexistent wages, hazardous conditions, and hopeless future of factory work? Twelve hour days spent bending over machines and trying, without result, to make something out of such a day. I spy Ed, my dear friend, his hand winding the edge of a Power Loom. His other hand, just a nub off to the side of his leg, missing fingers from an accident that brought him to tears. Next to him, reaching his hand into the body of a broken machine, is his ten year old brother Lewis. “Geoffrey!” His voice is a quiet echo amongst the whirring of
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Words 1189 - Pages 5