Ng 1 Nothing seems fair anymore. But then again, what exactly is fair?

Ive been doing this all my life without questioning the morality of it, but its about time I started doing so. At this age, Im old enough to realize that society changes, and it wasnt too long ago that society did change. Whether its for better or worse, I cant be the one to decide, but I can say that I dont agree with it whatsoever. At seventeen years old, I, Victor Ford, take full responsibility over my brothers Sam and Byron as we head to the factories each and every day of our lives. Even up to this point, I still remember the flood of emotions that overwhelmed us when we stood outside the door of our miserable, rundown home in the rural outskirts of London. The icy January winter breeze swept over us as we realized our parents had locked us out of our own home. It wasnt the first time it had happened, but I couldnt tell if either Sam or Byron had grown accustomed to it yet. It wouldnt have happened if Byron hadnt thrown a fit, but it happens every so often. Thats just life. Despite his being a kid of only eight years, I still dont understand why Byron hasnt gotten used to this kind of treatment from our parents. Its the same routine we undergo each and every day. I have to admit that its become rather monotonous and expected, but even Sam and Byron still react in the same way as theyve done for the past four years: childishly and immaturely. Dont get me wrong, though. Our parents arent exactly cruel folks. They dont extract sheer enjoyment from the simple act of forcing their children to work against their will. Theyre just shutting us out because they have to. However, it seems Im the only one of the three who understands that. As Ive observed over the past year, my two brothers have developed a deep resentment for our mum and dad. Every night when we

Ng 2 return from the factories, they seem to take their meals and then shun them for the rest of the evening. Theyll realize in time that our parents are working just as hard as we are. Thats what I keep telling my brothers, but even I cant be sure of that myself. Because we work from morning to night, we hardly ever meet our parents eye to eye. But thats why faith is the key in this type of scenario. As we began our long trek on foot, Byron continued to sulk and whine and Sam stared off obliviously into the distant sky. As for myself, I maintained careful watch over the both of them. Ive never seen myself as a real leader of any group, but when it comes to my brothers, only my love for them will suffice as the fuel for my concern. Since our parents have always been on another end of the world, Ive had to take it upon myself to assume responsibility over them. One aspect that I noticed along the way, however, was that Sam found warmth under his thick gray wool coat and that Byron appeared quite comfortable in his dark brown leather jacket. Though they wore holes and were smeared with dirt from over the years, they did represent the care and compassion of our parents. Why do we have to do this anyway? Sam complained all of a sudden. Its not like were doing anything special. Its not even fun. Sam did make an interesting point something I had not seen in him in previous years. Throughout all the time that Ive known my brother, Ive always found his questions to have been rather trivial, involving matters such as when wed be arriving and who wed be meeting. However, never had I ever heard him talk about why. Of course, he was still complaining, but at least he raised an interesting topic, for the question continued to linger in my mind for minutes afterward.

Ng 3 Why did we have to do this? What was the point in having to work several hours a day, every day when our parents could take care of it themselves? They have always been telling us that we need to earn some extra money to sustain the harsh conditions of English society, but the way I saw it, not all of us had to work. The way I saw it, I should have been the only one working, while Sam and Byron should have stayed home. Of course, they didnt see the situation that way. In their eyes, as long as they could live in a home with enough food and drink to survive, no one should have had to work. That, of course, was a rather unrealistic view, but then again, they were just children. Quite a lot has changed since the dawn of my working days while I was thirteen. If either Sam or Byron had to endure the conditions of my day, the amount of complaining would amount to much more than it did on that day. Back about two years ago, the government passed an act that limited the working day to a maximum ten hours. Now times were different, but from my perspective, it still wasnt enough. It still wasnt fair on people like us, ordinary children who deserved a better way to grow up, a better way to live our lives, a better way to remember our childhoods. Along the way, we passed through the cities, and I took note of the faces around us. Most of them belonging to adults, the expressions remained dull and depressing, perhaps from the droning attitude of daily life. I didnt want that for my brothers. At such young ages, Sam and Byron did not deserve to suffer through the drab lifestyle of a factory worker. That was for the adults. Concerning myself, I couldnt actually be bothered, for my attentions focused more on the feelings of my siblings. By the time we arrived at the factory in the heart of London, Byron had already ceased to complain, but a deep melancholy seemed to consume both him and Sam.

Ng 4 Noticing an aura of misery radiating off them, I couldnt help but sympathize and perhaps even empathize with them. A thick cloud of smog belched from the chimneys of the cold iron building, and I managed to catch a glimpse of the drab, exhausted faces of the other children already at work inside. Only a few had already begun at this hour, but I could only wonder what sorts of motivation inspired them to persevere. Over my several years at this particular establishment, I heard from several of the other children that various types of groups worked there. Theyve hired people like Byron, Sam, and myself, who simply wish to provide for their families, but a different breed of workers exist only for the sake of the government. I couldnt help but imagine that perhaps the children already at work the early birds, as I called them suffered from that particular fate, one that siphons the purpose and meaning out of their lives. Perhaps my brothers and I werent the unfortunate ones in this situation. At the foot of the building, I watched as one of the factory officials shouted at a despondent peer of mine. The childs face remained emotionless, as he continued to stare at the ground and nod faithfully at the admonishment. As for the official, however, I noticed a hint of relentless hatred and fury without a single tinge of pity. Not all our advisors adopted such an attitude, but this wasnt an uncommon aspect. At our factory, the officials worked on a rotating schedule in which they would trade shifts with each other, depending on the day of the week. We were just unfortunate on this particular day. Ceasing to pay heed to the incident any longer, my brothers and I checked in with the gatekeeper, passed through the rusty iron gates, and proceeded to work.

Ng 5 The moment we stepped into the building, the awful aroma of burning coal filled our noses and then our lungs. I noticed Sam let out a cough or two, but we all had a mutual understanding that this was inevitable. It has always been this way from the beginning. As the routine went, I knew that it was time to take leave from my brothers and head to my own station. This was, from my eyes, unfortunate and unfair, for I was the only familiar face my brothers had. According to them along with several other sources from their area theyve never been able to get along with the others. Then again, how could they when we werent even allowed to converse with each other in the factory? The factory officials have always emphasized the idea of punctuality among us, but it seemed I was the only one there at that moment. Its been this way for as long as I can remember, but Ive never actually attempted to follow the habits of my co-workers. I guess Ive just never had the audacity to do so, but that would probably be a wiser trait than anyone would commonly believe. As Ive always done, I carefully laid my set of tools around my station with sheer precision. The routine has never gotten stale for me, but as Ive seen throughout my days, my peers dont seem to care. Were all expected to maintain cleanliness, but again, no one upholds that rule other than me. Perhaps rules are, indeed, meant to be broken at times. Brawling is banned at the factory. Perhaps, I thought, I could start a brawl around my station. Of course, the blatancy of the whole situation would be rather apparent, but it was just a potential idea. Thus, I could only shrug off the prospect of breaking a rule. Id never done it throughout all my time at the factory, and I didnt intend on doing so

Ng 6 anytime soon, no matter how badly the urge rose up within me. The way I saw it, my family my brothers, my mother, my father all depended greatly on my development as a worker. I knew I played a crucial role among the family, and I wasnt willing to risk being dismissed from the factory. The welfare of my family, though, continued to conflict with my desire for standing up for myself. Without a doubt, I did not agree with the rules of the establishment at all, but I was afraid of the consequences for making a statement. Then again, there was nothing wrong with using reason, was there? If everything in the world operated according to reason, if everyone began to see things the way I did, society would function more cohesively. According to reason, I believed, there would be nothing immoral in breaking the rules. A burning desire to do so continued to rage within me. What was wrong with violating one simple rule? Perhaps even worse than igniting a brawl would have been initiating a coup against the officials, an idea that was beginning to develop in my imagination. Perhaps my mind was wandering into territory in which it didnt belong. But again, my sense of reason saw nothing wrong with it. My conscience had no problems with such prospects. According to reason, these thoughts seemed to be nothing more than harmless reveries that would never leave my mind, that would never evolve into realities. As I returned to what was supposed to be my main focus, I found myself to have completed several identical pieces that had developed under my hands at my workstation. I didnt even notice the progress over time, nor did I care. Several of such projects soon found their way onto the never-ending conveyor belt before me, and I resumed progress on my other projects. At that moment, I had given up my unrealistic views.

Ng 7 But sometimes, reason can decide to adopt your views. Sometimes, reason can decide that certain reveries should emerge as a reality. About two rows down from me, an argument suddenly broke out between one of the other workers and a factory official. The shouting gradually intensified, while the two traded curses back and forth. The boy, probably around the age of fifteen or sixteen, stood up, his figure towering over the official. Dont get too heroic, said the older one. This act of bravado will end, and you will get back in your seat. Now. His scowl beginning to deepen, the boy turned around and swept everything off his worktable. The official grabbed him by the collar and began to drag him away, but within seconds, several of the other workers followed suit and threw their items of their tables. A rumble of voices grew louder, and though many of my peers enjoyed this moment, several others including myself remained seated. Control was no longer in the officials favor, as many of the workers began to break out into a state of chaos. They threw to the ground an array of items, including work tools, finished products, and lunchboxes. The other officials tried to get involved, but their efforts were for naught. I controlled myself and continued to stay out of the incident, but deep down, I couldnt help but imagine myself as one of the rebellious ones. Only a minute had elapsed when the factory officials soon returned order to the area. During the conflict, several punches were traded, but the child workers were the ones who recoiled and returned to their work stations. I knew without a doubt that the brawlers would face appropriate consequences later on, and I considered myself fortunate I wasnt one of them.

Ng 8 I enjoyed that eventful moment, but I understood that, as I resumed my work, I would have to return to the drab monotony of my work life. It wasnt a fair way for me or anyone else, for that matter to live out my life, but then again, what exactly is fair?