Work Text:
“Boy!”
His heart raced at the summons. He squeezed his hands into fists and hummed a quiet tune. It was one he had picked up from the masons as they worked—with some improvements of his own. The music filled his head, swirling in ropes of soft blue and gentle green, a momentary reprieve from his work. It echoed through stone, bouncing off partially-built walls and obscuring his location. Breaks were few and far between, and the work was hard.
“I can hear you! Where the hell are you?”
It was fine. They couldn’t reach him here. He couldn’t reach him here. It was a great irony that the one job they loved to have him do was the one thing that put him out of their reach. His small, slender frame fit so nicely into the spaces between walls and roofs, spaces no grown man could hope to enter.
“Boy! Stop that cursed singing at once and show yourself!”
Still, though. It was best not to keep him waiting. He fell silent and slid from between the walls into view. The head mason spotted him at once and approached.
“Keep your eyes down, boy. You ought to know to respect your father by now.”
‘Father.’ Ha. He wasn’t an idiot. This man was no more his father than any of the other masons. He’d heard the whispers. He hadn’t been on this earth but a decade, but he already knew how it worked. The whispers of bastard and whore. Demon. Cursed. Punishment. The only reasons he hadn’t been tossed out on the street or put to death were pride and greed. As long as the head mason could profit from him, as long as there was no ‘proof.’
Pain flared across his face, and his hand shot up. Was it still covered? His hand met skin, and his stomach dropped. He stumbled back and groped for a wall. Where was the cloth?
“I said keep your eyes down!”
A horrible keening wail split the air in sharp yellow. The cloth! He needed the cloth! He had to find the cloth! He sank to the floor, his hands scrambling in the dust.
Someone cried out in disgust. A tool hurtled past his head. “Get back, foul creature!”
He had to find the cloth. Had to…. Had to find—
A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, and he jerked back. A brick thudded to the ground.
There! In a pile of rocks! He dove toward it. A mason standing nearby picked it up. He dove toward the mason. For a brief moment, warm fingers met his.
“Don’t touch the child!” someone else called out. “He will damn you!”
The hand tore away, and the man flinched backwards. “Get away from me, you cursed child of death!”
Off balance, he fell, grabbing at the scaffolding as he went. Something shifted. Stones tumbled down. The mason screamed.
“Get back!”
A pained moan echoed off the partially formed cement walls. The mason lay there, his leg covered in stone.
“Insolent child! I told you to keep your face covered! See what you’ve done?”
His hands pressed the cloth to his face. It stank of lime and mud.
“Devil child!” another mason called.
He backed away. There was no use protesting. The men had learned early on that their supervisor paid no mind should they choose to take out their frustrations on him. He would find no defenders here, not even his own mother on the days she visited the work sites. She only stood there, her empty eyes fixed elsewhere, her lips in a thin line...
Warm wetness coated his neck. He stumbled forwards, his hands hitting the ground. His vision flashed. Several men cheered.
“That will show you to mess with us!”
He reached a hand up to touch his neck. It itched horribly. Wet cement mix. Someone had thrown a bucket of it at him.
“Get up,” the head mason snapped. “You still have work to do today. You can wash it off once all your work is done.” The head mason didn’t wait for his acknowledgement before walking off to bark orders at another of his men.
He grit his teeth as the wet mixture began to burn against his skin. Panting, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the wall. Rage flashed bright red across his vision, and he clenched his teeth. His arms shook as he pulled himself into the crawlspace. His heart pounded. He pressed his throbbing shoulder against the cool wall and took a shuddering breath.
He licked his lips, the ever-present earthy taste of concrete coating his tongue. His eyes stung, and he swiped at them. He cleared them as best as he could, then returned to work, careful not to leave the crawl spaces for more than a moment.
The rest of the day passed at an agonizing pace, the burning across his skin swelling and fading like the movements of a symphony. It burned worst at his neck, right where the sack met his skin. At times it grew nearly unbearable, and he would haul himself into the walls to claw at the flesh, his nails attempting to scour the pain from his body.
When at last, his father had left for the day, he pilfered a bar of soap and stumbled to the water pump. The pain only worsened as he scrubbed at the dried cement with soap. It was like fire, one that water would not quench. The skin became slick to the touch, oddly slippery, and yet the burning still worsened. He scrubbed at it harder, seized in frenzied desperation. A sob escaped his lips, and he choked back a scream.
His energy left him and he collapsed against the spigot, his chest heaving.
There was nothing for him here. They would never accept him. Not here. Not like this. Not with his face. His face... His eyes burned. He squeezed them shut and sucked in another breath.
Get away. Get back! Things they always said to him. He clenched his fist as a new kind of fire filled him. If he were such a burden, then perhaps he should just leave.
They would never catch him. If they even bothered to try. His parents certainly wouldn’t miss him. His miserable excuse of a mother and the pathetic oaf who pretended to be his father.
They could find some other poor soul to work between the walls. He would be free. Free to make a name for himself. Free to become whatever he wanted to be. Free to be defined by something other than this cursed face.
He turned and ran, not once looking back.