Work Text:
I belong to Omelas.
You’ve probably heard about my city. The public works, the festival, the joy.
The child.
Yes, it is true. Omelas is built on the suffering of a child. I’ve seen it. Has it been the same child this whole time? Maybe. It could have been switched out. A few times, honestly, by now. It’s—no, they have—always looked the same. Sexless. Dirty. Scared beyond voicing. The most pitiful and horrifying thing—person—that I have ever seen.
When they take us to see the child for the first time, it’s always during some festival. You’re sitting there, standing there with your friends or family, blithely participating in the fun. An elderly figure you look up to—grandmother, teacher, mayor, someone—taps you on the shoulder.
“I have something to show you.”
Full of trust, you follow them. Down below even the sewers. There’s a strange sense of dread—what is coming? What is this mysterious and exciting thing?
A dungeon cell. A warning that if this child ever has its suffering relieved society will crumble.
I kissed it—them. Apparently a few of us do. It’s uncommon, but confusing enough to the child that it brings no comfort. A quick touch of lip to brow.
I have gone back to that cell many times. I know the guards and tormentors. I know others who keep coming back. I know the cooks. I kiss or embrace or cry for the child, then shuffle away. They look confused.
“Who are you? What are you doing? Leave!”
We can say nothing, those who truly belong. But we stay. We bear witness. And we know joy.