I've never been a good person.

I've never been a bad person either. My parents say I'm an in-between kind of person. Mostly because that's what they were. In-between kind of people.

My parents have killed people. Not of their own accord, they were in the war. The Workers War, of course. It was a war about 30 years ago. The workers of the factories weren't given good enough wages and began a revolution against the foremans. Little did they know, the tensions would ripple all across this desolate planet. Every person on the planet was fighting with someone at that time. We didn't have battles we had full on wars within the war. My parents say it was a scary time to live but they only told us stories of the good times in the war.

It's actually how my parents met. My mom was a general and my dad was a private. They never said they loved each other until the war was over. I found that kind of sad. If one of them died, they would never know how they felt. My parents said is was a way to ensure they would both survive. But it sure seemed like they didn't survive.

My parents refused to tell me what else happened in the war. I mean there are fairy tales and legends about people who carried the war into victory, but it's not clear who won.

The planet became a place of great machines and beige, barren wastelands. Small areas of thriving cities that lived in a haze of polluted, toxic air. While the larger part of the world lived with dirt in their lungs and no place to thrive.

My family lived just on the brink of the biggest city in the world. We simply called it, City. All the other good names were taken.

_____

"Can you help me screw this in?" I screamed to anyone who could hear. I was building something bigger than I'd ever built before. I was a tinkerer from the moment I was born. My dad was too. That was until 10 years prior.

Tensions had always been high since the war ended. Those in power hated to see the people they employed. My dad just looked at someone wrong and got beaten within an inch of his life. He had to sit in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. The worst part is, it was the day my little brother was born.

"I'll help!" My little bother, Christian, sauntered in with is little toolbox ready in hand. He was just a kid with dreams to become something bigger than the dusty place we resided. It broke my heart to see hope. No matter how driven you are, no one gets out of here. Never.

"No, no, no. I'm not being liable for you to get electrocuted again. Mom will kill me if I let that happen again." Even though he was 10 years younger than me, he almost towered over me. I was a short little thing who could barely reach the top shelf of the cabinets. Even if I was a full grown adult.

"But Mom said I could!" He jumped up and down, creating almost an earthquake beneath my feet, the behemoth.

My mom was bringing out lunch to put on the table. She wore an apron that was clean as a whistle, yet she carried dirt and grime in her clothes and face. She puts up a facade of being a dutiful housewife, yet deep down I know she was a badass in the war who would die if she saw herself today.

"Mom, did you say he could help me build?" I said, already knowing the answer.

"Never, Eliza! I can't have my little baby becoming toast." She crossed the room to pinch my little brother's cheeks. He hated it and swatted her hands away, groaning that he couldn't have his way.

I never liked my name. My parents said it was based on a beautiful book they had before the war. My name was based on one of Jane Austen's most famous characters, Elizabeth Bennett. A lot of books were burned by the other side. My brothers name however was based on a movie my parents bonded over. Christian was a hopeless romantic in search of the greatest love story ever told. My brother, however, thought girls were yucky and never even spoke to one.

I stuck my tongue out at him in protest. My mom called us into the dining room to eat our lunch.

We lived in a very small house. My contraption took up most of the space. I felt bad but there was no other place I could build and have it still be functioning by sunrise. My dad insisted I keep it inside. "For the sake of the inventors mind!" He shouted every time my mother gawked at the eyesore.

My mother wheeled my father to the dining table from where he was looking out on the City. He grumbles every time he does but he insists on looking out that window. It was always painful seeing him in the chair. I never showed it on my face, but I certainly felt it. He used to be a sergeant. Leading soldiers into battle for their rights to live and be free. Now he requires assistance to use the bathroom. It felt unfair. But then again, none of this felt fair.

"Kids, lets grub." My mom had a thick southern accent. A lot of the time I couldn't understand a word she was saying. Granted, my friends told me I had a thick accent too. That is, if I had any friends. We didn't have school or groups or clubs or even neighbors. We just had the dust to talk to.

I scarfed down the food that everyone else ate on the outskirts of town. Every time it was some sort of variation of beans. Bean soup, bean casserole. My mom once tried to make a bean cake for my birthday. It didn't go over well.

We could grow more things, but that was the only thing that tasted somewhat good.

"How's the contraption going?" My mom said, daintily.

"Never better!" I lied. I was never as good as my dad. He built contraptions that saved peoples lives. I was just building something to build something. It didn't help people and it didn't really work. It was just a hunk of junk in the middle of the room.

"Stop lying, dear." My father interjected. We all looked to him. He may have been in a wheelchair but that didn't mean that he wasn't terrifying sometimes. "It doesn't do anything, does it?" My mom and my brother looked to me.

"W-Well it doesn't work yet. I'm still working on it." I shrunk into my chair and picked at my bean curd lunch.

"What is it gonna do?" Christian had to be apart of the conversation. I spent way too much time thinking of something it could do.

They were obviously onto me until I blurted out; "Time machine!"

My mother squealed. "Wonderful! You can go back and meet old Presidents or see the World Series or-"

"Go back and change all this." My father sighed. He continued to pick at his bean curd until my mom pushed him back to his spot near the window.

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