The air in the lower sectors always tasted like old copper and frozen grease. That "bitter" flavor was the first thing I ever knew. My family lived in a room that was barely more than a pressurized metal box in the sub-levels. We were the kind of poor where you sleep with your coat on because the heaters only run four hours a day to save colony credits.
I spent my time watching the snow through reinforced plexiglass, or staring at the sliver of grey sky visible through thermal vents. My mind would wander. I'd be staring at a single snowflake, watching the way the jagged edges caught the artificial light, and the world—the shouting of kids, the hum of the engines, the cold in my toes—would just vanish.
My parents were the only warmth. I remember the way my mother's heavy thermal coat felt, the fabric smelling of the floral detergent she saved for special days. I watched her hands, cracked from the dry air, moving with a steady rhythm as she mended miners' suits. My father had a smile that made the dim lights seem brighter. He'd come home from the ice-drills with frost on his eyelashes and tell me stories about the world above the ice, where the sun felt hot on your skin.
Then, the accident happened. Everything "sweet" vanished in a single day. A pressure valve failed at the drill site; they were gone before the sirens stopped.
I cried until my chest felt like it would crack. I didn't want to scream; I just sat in the middle of our empty room, letting the tears fall. I felt a massive sense of loss, a "bitter" hollow in my gut heavier than the mountain of ice above us. I didn't hate the feeling. It was so intense that a part of me reached out to hold onto it. It was a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders.
At three, they sent me to the Sector 4 orphanage. It was a grey building where the walls wept condensation. I lived in a middle ground where I loved that sadness because it was all I had left of them, but I hated being alone in a room of strangers.
An older girl there became like a sister to us. She was the only "sweet" thing in that building. But when I was five, a man in a wool suit came. I saw him slide a stack of credits across the director's desk. The girl was "adopted" that afternoon. Later, I saw a policeman take a cut of that money. I felt a sharp fear.
I spent days asking questions and wandering the edges of the Sector. I had to know where she went. Eventually, I found her. She wasn't in a new home. She was a corpse, dumped in an alleyway near the trash compactors.
Finding her was a physical blow. The dread was so thick I could taste it, but then, a terrifying spark of excitement and happiness flared up. I didn't understand it, but the intensity of the moment made my heart race in a way that felt dangerously alive. It was so sharp it was almost addictive.
I ran. I knew she hadn't been adopted; she had been sold. The orphanage took the money, and the police took a bribe to keep the "bitter" truth quiet. They were selling us like scrap metal. I heard gang members bragging about the "fresh stock."
I couldn't stay. My heart had been beating fast ever since I saw her. I told my friends, but they didn't believe me. One stood up to tell the director I was lying. I ran before he could reach the office.
I ended up in another gang's territory, begging for food. The synthetic paste tasted like chemical ash, a "bitter" slurry in my stomach. Sometimes, hiding near a steam pipe, I'd wonder: Why did I know they were selling us? It wasn't just being smart; it was as if I knew things I'd never seen. When my father talked about the sun, I knew how it felt. I had dreams about a white room and a brother I never had. I dismissed them.
For the last five or six days, I've been feeling a crushing tiredness. My body felt heavy. The "bitter" dreams were increasing. Today, the cold seeped into my bones. My breath came in wheezing gasps.
Then, a rich man in the marketplace gave me a huge amount of credits. He was smiling, but it was a hollow smile. He told his son you don't have to "dirty your hands" to get what you want. I had a bad feeling, but I was so thankful I hurried away to hide the money.
A heavy pipe slammed into the back of my head. As I fell, hands reached into my pockets. Oh, I thought as darkness closed in, so that's what he meant. He knew someone else would do it for him. I lost consciousness thinking about how "bitter" that smile was.
When I woke, the world was different. My memories had returned like a tidal wave. I remembered the white rooms, the hospital bed, and the face of my brother Elias.
I looked at myself. One leg was bruised blue; fingers were black from frost. I limped toward my shack, tears streaming down my face. It wasn't sadness. It was pure happiness. I was alive. I had a second chance.
I reached my shack and felt the "bitter" chill inside. A giggle started in my throat, growing into a laugh that turned into a racking cough. I laughed until I couldn't breathe. I could feel again. The pain in my head, the sting of the cold—it was the "sweet" relief of being me.
I sat on the dirt floor, staring at my black fingers. They were dead, but they were mine. I touched the frozen wall, feeling the frost bite. It hurt. It was wonderful.
Then, I felt something new. The hum of the engines disappeared, replaced by a clarity that cut like a blade.
My past life rushed back without the fog. I saw the faces, the choices, the exact way the light hit the floor. A hot pressure built behind my eyes. Blood spilled from my nose, soaking my lip. My ears popped with a wet sound.
The wind howled. A man pulled aside the rusted sheet of metal—a scavenger I had helped months ago. I know I looked terrifying—a child in the dirt, blood masking my face, eyes fixed a thousand miles away.
My current life slammed into the vision. I saw the hunger, the cold, the girl in the alley, the thief's pipe. The pressure in my skull doubled. Vision turned red as blood seeped from the corners of my eyes, mixing with tears. I coughed a thick spray of copper.
I looked at it all—both lives, both deaths. It was a mountain of struggle, a weight that should have crushed me. But seeing myself standing in that wreckage, I realized how magnificent it was. It was a masterpiece of endurance.
My life is truly beautiful.
A rattling giggle escaped my blood-stained lips. The scavenger looked at me with instinctive fear. But he moved closer, hands shaking, reaching for a thermal wrap to help me.
The Name began to vibrate in the air. A physical weight. The sound of the mountain I'm carrying.
The Beautiful Burden of Being.
The moment it crystallized, it started to vanish. My brain could not house it. The syllables melted; the Name erased itself to save my mind from shattering. I clenched my teeth, but it was like catching a shadow.
The pressure snapped. The ringing died. The blood slowed.
I reached for the Word, but it was gone. I couldn't remember the sound or the shape. I slumped back against the rusted metal, the Name lost, leaving me with nothing but the dry taste of blood and a hollow, final sweetness in my chest.