It was night. Stars littered the sky, glowing faintly— their bright potential hindered by light pollution.
The book lay open on his desk, faint pencil marks along the margins.
"Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it."
Dolores traced the sentence with his eyes, half-slouched in his chair. It wasn't homework— just something he'd found in the library last week. A break from the sciences and math.
He'd told himself he'd only read a few pages before bed. Two hours later, he was half-philosopher, half-zombie, writing 'colonialism bad' in the margins like it was a thesis.
The Wretched of the Earth.
He remembered it being a part of his mother's personal collection when he was younger.
The title sounded dramatic, like a sermon. But the writing wasn't. It was blunt. Precise. The kind of sentences that left no air between words.
"For the colonized, life can only spring up again from the rotting corpse of colonialism."
He paused over that one. Underlined it lightly.
The author kept describing colonialism not as history but as something alive, pulsing— a system with its own appetite. Empires feeding on land, wealth, bodies, then calling it civilization. Whole lives erased, turned into statistics or excuses.
The words didn't demand agreement. They just sat there, heavy, like the book knew something he didn't. Which was true, with his life being a hallmark of privilege as proof.
Rich parents. Most knowledge at his fingertips. Shelter, security, food, health, luxury— he virtually had it all.
Dolores sat back, pencil in hand. Nine people have gone missing in town this month. The news wouldn't stop talking about it. Police said human trafficking. Some whispered hate groups. No one agreed on anything except the fact people were gone.
He stared at the line again— rotting corpse— and wondered what it took for people to fight back.
The clock on his nightstand glowed 11:49, almost midnight. He was supposed to be asleep, but he read the page again before finally closing the cover. By the time the alarm read 11:50, the book was already back on the shelf, hidden between old notebooks and textbooks.
February 22, 2023
8:30 AM — [House]
The alarm blared, sharp and repetitive through the quiet of the room.
A groggy groan followed, and Dolores clicked the clock off, lying still for a few more seconds to gather himself.
The ceiling above him was faintly painted with a warm light, the kind that barely reached past the curtains. This casted an orange over the floor, contrasting against the darkness.
He rose from bed. In the kitchen, he took his usual seat at the breakfast table. The faint scent of miso soup and protein shake clung to the air, mingling with the smell of sunlight penetrating through the big windows. His mother, a housewife, and his father, who didn't leave for work until 9:30, were already seated. From the television came the voice of a newscaster:
"... Onto our next story; missing rates in the town of XXX continue to rise as more and more cases of people reportedly going missing become increasingly common. Speculation regarding whether they are being committed en masse by a hate group or not grow due to most of the missing being members of racial minorities. Police state otherwise, however. On the contrary, they believe the missing cases might be related to a rise in human traff–"
Before the report could finish, Dolores' mother changed the channel, replacing the dark headline with a cheery morning talk show.
"Hey, I was watching that," his father muttered, still bleary-eyed as he sipped his steaming coffee. Dolores noted his father's hands— so steady, so surgical.
"Darling, it's eight in the morning. I don't wanna watch something so negative," she replied firmly.
With no further protest, he let it go.
The three sat together, silently watching as the host rambled on about what flowers to plant for spring. Outside the window, the front garden swayed, soft blades of grass comfortably acclimating under the weight of passing cats.
After finishing his light meal, Dolores placed his dishes in the sink and moved on with his routine. Face washed. Teeth brushed. His reflection in the mirror looked half-asleep, framed by a soft yellow light that buzzed faintly overhead. At precisely 8:50, he stepped out of the house, just as the school bus came into view.
"Be back by 4," his father reminded, mother humming in the background.
8:53 AM - [Bus]
The school bus, as usual, was steeped in quiet. Rows of tired students sat cocooned in their own little worlds, morning light streaking across the windows in strips.
The only exceptions were the faint, tinny screams of heavy metal leaking from a girl's headphones, and the steady chewing of gum from a boy seated near Dolores.
The bus rumbled along roads still slick with last night's rain, weaving through sleepy intersections. Trees passed in a blur outside, their branches bony and unmoving.
From behind him, a gentle tap landed on his shoulder. A voice leaned in close, "Hey, are you done your history assignment?" It was Prudence, his classmate.
"Yep."
Prudence sounded sheepish, "Actually, I'm stuck on the long paragraph portion... Could you maybe help me with that after school? Pleeaase?"
Dolores hesitated, "... I don't know about that."
"I just need help arranging my key ideas and fact-checking. I already have everything else figured out!"
"It's only a paragraph worth twenty marks, I don't see why you need help."
"Have you seen my history grades? I'm practically failing... Also, you owe me, remember? I've delivered your schoolwork a bunch of times."
After a few seconds, Dolores relented with a compromise, "... I'll help you on lunch break."
Prudence audibly beamed, "Ah, thank you! Though, I still prefer after school since I feel like I need more time. Let me know if you change your mind!"
She lowered her voice a little after a few seconds of hesitation. "Did you hear about that freshman? The one who disappeared?"
Dolores turned slightly. "Yeah."
Prudence fiddled with the strap of her bag, smiling like it was nothing, but her words carried an edge. "That's... what, nine people now? I'm starting to think my parents aren't paranoid enough about driving me everywhere."
Her tone tried for lightness. It didn't land.
"You scared?" Dolores asked.
Prudence shrugged too quickly. "Kinda. But, I mean... it's not like anything ever happens in this town, right? Maybe it's just... some big misunderstanding."
Her smile stayed fixed, but she didn't meet his eyes.
A couple of rows ahead, two girls murmured to each other. One of them, a Filipino kid, glanced at the windows like she expected someone to be out there watching.
"My cousin said it's only been Brown kids so far— but that we're probably going to be targeted, too," one with short twists whispered.
The other shook her head sharply. "Shut up, don't say that! There won't be any more disappearances..."
The bus engine hummed on, swallowing the words.
9:15 AM — [School Hallway]
School wasn't far. Dolores walked through the halls, immediately sensing the somber, alert atmosphere that hung over the students. The white-painted walls felt unusually still.
Posters for spring clubs and sports tryouts hung against white walls, but no one paid them any mind. One stood out in particular— a poster calling for a ceasefire in Palestine; ripped off and put back up too many times over the years.
"... Inaction is complicity," he read off the wall.
The air buzzed with tension and low, whispering murmurs.
It was understandable. Of the nine people currently missing in town, three were teenagers.
The school remained open, though many questioned the wisdom of that decision. Students of colour, especially, seemed more guarded than usual. Their eyes flicked to strangers with second glances, their footsteps measured.
The town's history with White supremacy wasn't a secret— KKK activity had long left a stain on its reputation. While the police denied any hate-group involvement and suggested human trafficking instead, locals knew better. They whispered of payoffs, of silenced reports, of a truth too dangerous to speak out loud.
Dolores carried on and headed to his first class.