The Slaves of the Mine

​ The guard handed me over to an A man named Mike. He was dressed in a faded blue striped suit, the fabric thick with coal dust, the collar and cuffs worn and shiny. A cigarette hung from his lips, the end of which burned almost to his finger, though he did not seem to care. The smoke he exhaled mingled with the distinct scent of coal dust that hung over the mine and choked me. The scar on the right side of his face, creeping like a centipede down his cheekbone, twitched almost imperceptibly as he fixed his murky eyes on me. It made him look both malevolent and terrifying. “What’s your name?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke straight at me. His tone was thick with impatience. “Aray,” I said, turning my face away in disgust, avoiding his gaze. “Here, no one needs to know your name.” Mike let out a sneer, and flung a rough suit of gray clothes at my feet. The fabric was stiff as sandpaper and stained with dried dirt and what looked like blood. “From today, you’re 397. Put these on, and