Before I start the story I would like to make it clear that this is a fictional story with fictional characters taking place in a fictional world. None of the people or groups in this story represent real life people or groups, they quite sincerely do not.

The sun is shining down in bright and potent rays over my body. It presses down into my head, my back, my neck, my arms, my legs. It is hot and muggy and feels like I am breathing in soup. But at the same time I feel alive. I feel so incredibly alive as I sit here in the grass, in front of a large flat rock that I purified with fire, that I am using as a table.

I grind the leaves with the large rock in my hand, scraping them against the worn mortar that my friend Cassandra got from her employers' garbage. The leaves turn into a wet green paste. These are amina leaves, known for their soothing and healing properties, good for throat infections. I work slowly and fastidiously, keeping a calm, cool, collected sort of concentration on the task at hand.

When the leaves are all smashed up, I gently transfer them to the cooking pan that is filled with water. I will let them soak for a while before boiling them, in order to really let the leaf paste soften and dilute out into the water, so that all the good medicine juices can really come out.

I take the stone knife that my neighbour Aliya made me and I cut the kachi seeds in half. This is very specific work, as the seeds themselves are rather quite small and they have pretty thick edges. I need to break them down so that all the good stuff inside can seep into the water along with all the other ingredients. Once I'm finally done, I toss them in the pan with the leaf paste.

Now I need to get the juice out of a pesta fruit. Thankfully this is easy, since the fruit is mostly juice anyways. I squeeze the flesh above the pan of water until the fruit is a dry husk. I do that to three more fruits, and I put the flesh and peels aside to cook into food later. The liquid in the pan is now at twice the height it used to be at.

The last component of the mixture is the peels of the ave berries. The seeds of these berries are deeply poisonous to eat, but their peels are full of nutrients and medicines that can cure even severe illnesses. I take great care to peel them precisely and not let the seeds of the berries enter the pan. I take care to go slowly.

When I'm done all that, I use the flint rocks I keep tucked away in my skirts to light the firewood arranged in a cone at my side. I hang the pan on the wooden sticks arranged into a frame over the fire and I let it come to a boil. I stir with a metal spoon, one of the only metal things I have, and I wait until the liquid level has halved.

I ladle it out into my leather water skin. I am done. I am done making the medecine. And I can now give it to Casey, who is fighting off a terrible fever and a great soreness to their throat, and needs medicine very badly. I gather my water skin and make my way off to their tent.

I walk down the grassy streets lined on each side with sturdy tents large enough to fit a few people inside. It's not much. It's not much at all. But it's what my community has. Once, we had much better shelters to live in, made of flexible sticks and tied together by vines. But now the plants used for those shelters are too rare, and we must make do with tents.

It's not much, the medecine I made for them. It's not ever much. There were once days when the medicine was so much more powerful, could do so much more. My people were once one with the rainforest around us. We knew it inside out, and we knew how to ask for its help in creating powerful medicines that could cure strong and dangerous illnesses.

But that was the reality of days long gone by, days long since passed. Overtime, my people, the people of the rainforest, have lost much of our knowledge. Not only the knowledge of medicines, but the knowledge of how to find food and shelter and materials from within the rainforest, how to rely upon it to help us and protect us and provide for us.

Not only has our knowledge been lost, but much of the rainforest's power has been lost, as it dwindled with new developments cutting swathes from it and stripping lines through it. The rainforest isn't vast and powerful and overwhelming anymore. Only a fraction of it remains. It can't protect us and nurture us and provide for us as it used to.

I ache at all the deep loss that my people have underwent, that all people have underwent, truly. It settles like a deep, wet, heavy void inside my heart, a deep-rooted and far-reaching melancholy that nothing will ever be able to heal. I feel the roots of loss stretching through my people, through my community, through my ancestors and descendants.

But things are better. Things are better than they were before. And for that I'm glad.

I arrive at the door flap of Casey's tent. Inside, their father, Peter, is holding a wet cloth to their forehead.

"Is the fever any better?" I ask softly, kneeling in front of the nine-year-old child.

"Unfortunately, no," Peter responds.

"Well, I have a tincture that can help." I pass him the water skin. "Boil this and tell them to drink it while it's hot."

"Okay."

"Hi Casey." I keep my voice soft and sweet. "How are you?"

"Not good," they answer weakly.

"Do you think you could get up for me?"

"Okay." Their dad helps them into a half-sitting position, on a heap of pillows.

"I'm going to rub some poultice on your throat to help open it up a bit," I explain.

"Okay," they reply feebly.

I get out the poultice made of ajeni roots in my bag and I start softly applying it to their throat. The mushy paste is soft and light yellow and smells sharp and sour. When it's all applied, I tell them to stay there while the poultice dries.

"I have some faje grass that you should burn, and let the smoke waft through the tent." I give Peter a few handfuls of the grass. Breathing in its smoke should help fight off the illness. My friend Aaron got the grass from within the rainforest.

"Thank you," Peter tells me.

"Think nothing of it," I reply, getting up from the floor of the tent. We bid each other goodbye and then I'm off again to the healing tent.

———

"So are you grateful to your boss? Or are you not?" young Amy asks Ruth as we all sit crowded into Sarah's tent. There is Eric, Carah, Ruth, Tom, eleven-year-old Amy, and myself. Tom is holding a sleeping baby Sallie in his arms, who is only a bit older than one year and is so sweet and soft and adorable. We sit on the floor, as we always do, with the blankets rolled up and put to the side.

"I don't know," Ruth replies. "On one hand, it keeps us all in clothing and shelter. And the Creator knows that we need that, now that the rainforest," her voice goes dark, goes sad, "now that the rainforest can't help us as much as it used to. But also on the other hand, it feels degrading, to have to wait on people and to serve them just in return for basic rights like clothes and shelter. I feel like a circus animal doing tricks to get fed."

"I guess that makes sense," Amy replies. "Is it hard to be a waitress?"

"Not really," Ruth responds. "Not as hard as it could be at least. I can get through it. But it still feels, it still feels wrong."

"We weren't meant to work like this," Eric adds in. "We're people of the rainforest. We're supposed to go out into the rainforest and get whatever we need. And we're supposed to be taken care of and provided for by our community no matter what. We shouldn't have to work for exchange of basic rights. We should have our rights no matter what, and we should work to help our community."

"Though I guess we do still work to help our communities in a way," I ponder. "All of our money goes to the collective fund that we all have together."

"It's not the same as what we had before," Amy retorts, her voice nostalgic, nostalgic for a time she's never lived.

"You're right, it's not," Carah agrees. "We work now for the outsiders. We work to help them and to serve them. And we get our money from them. We get our resources from them. And not from the world, as it should be."

"I miss the times when things were different," Amy declares.

"I do too, Amy, I do too." I try my best to console her.

"Still, though," Tom, who has been quiet up until this time, acknowledges, "we try to keep to the old ways as much as we can. We all help each other as much as we can help each other. We go into the rainforest. We commune with the rainforest and try to take care of it, try to protect it, try to respect it. We try to see each other as the people who we truly are and not as the people that the outsiders see us as. We are ourselves and we are not who they want us to be. We will never be who they want us to be."

"And that's a victory." Eric builds off of what Tom said. "No matter how much loss we face, the ways in which we stay true to our people is a victory."

"So when I'm old enough to work," Amy begins, "do you think I'll have the strength to do it? Do you think I'll have the strength to get through it?"

"I think you will," I tell her. "We've all done it. We all do it. Even though it leaves a bad taste in our mouths, we all get through it. The sky knows that the support the government gives us for all the bullshit they did in our past is not nearly enough for us to get by. And even though the rainforest gives us a lot, it's still not enough these days."

"I guess I'm just kind of scared." Amy's voice has a tense edge to it. "I don't know if I'll have the strength to get through it. Everyone talks at school about how rainforesters are weak and pathetic and how they can't do things. And I've heard here how we're not, how we're not made for this economy. So I guess I don't know if I'll be able to bring in money to help the community."

"Oh sweetheart," Carah starts. "No-one's made for this economy. Rainforester or not. But we all live in it. But you don't have to bring in money if you don't want to, or can't. The community has your back always. And anyways, most of us only find work that's one or two days a week, because of all the prejudices against our people. You'll be able to get through one or two days a week."

"I hope you're right," Amy responds.

———

I am twisting my way through the small gaps in the thick rainforest underbrush, my spirit-sister Sheila in front of me. She knows the forest better than I do, on account of her having a few years on me. She knows the forest. And she knows how to look through the forest and find the plants that we need.

We're not looking for healing plants right now, as the stock in the healing tent is full. Instead, we're looking for any fruits or berries that might add to the community's food supply. Because we need to have enough to get by. No matter what happens, we need to have enough to get by. And thankfully, thankfully we can still rely on the rainforest to help us.

It's slightly cooler here, in the warmth of the forest. It's slightly cooler than the village in the meadow, and it's dark and thick and full of life. Everywhere you turn, there is life of all sorts growing and reaching and sparking all around us. The whole forest seems to be flowing with energy, flowing with power, flowing with the breath of life. And I feel so very connected to it and connected to all the life in the world, as I always am when I'm in the forest.

But today is not a time to simply commune with the forest, as is the case on some other days. Today I am filled with a sense of purpose. Purpose to keep my community safe. Purpose to provide for my community. Purpose to do what I can. This sense of purpose courses through my soul like water flowing through a tree. It courses through my soul and it grounds me and connects me with this life.

This life. This life is a beautiful life. Despite all the hurt and the suffering and the loss. Despite all the need and the scraping by with only just enough, despite the heavy weight of history upon me, this life is still beautiful. And I'm blessed by the rainforest, I'm blessed by my community, I'm blessed by humanity. I'm blessed I'm so many ways. I would never want to give it all up.

"So, ruzberry," Sheila starts, "have you seen little Cody swear? He does it so adorably. It's hilarious."

"No, I haven't heard him swear," I reply, "I'll have to soon."

"You will have to. Oh, it's so very cute. You can't get him to do it though. If you tell him to swear, he refuses. But if anything makes him angry, oh it's so super cute."

"It is very cute when he gets angry."

"You're right, it really is."

"I love it when children get angry. They're such small little balls of rage."

"Oh they are. They just, they just express their emotions so completely."

"Yes, they have no inhibitions. And I get how adults need inhibitions. I totally get that. But small children are so, they're just so wild."

"They really are. And it's so hard to not give in to their adorableness."

"It is. Though a lot of times you absolutely should give in."

"That's true. A lot of times you should."

We reach a tree split into three different main trunks. It has smooth bark but thankfully it has many branches which make it easy to climb. And that's a good thing, too. In the leaves of the tree are nestled a wealth of juicy aranas. My mouth waters just from looking at them.

We make our way up the tree and hang on to the branches with one hand; we fill our bags with the fruit. We take care to not take too much, to not take any more than we need. We must leave enough that the animals can take the fruit as well, so that the rainforest can be healthy and it can continue providing for us and giving us life.

———

Being here is so different from being in the village. It's all so ... all so built. It's all so straight. There are so many sharp edges and not a speck of dirt anywhere. There are so many squares. So many squares and straight lines and flat surfaces. There is so much metal and plastic and technology.

And it's busy here. Really busy. In that way, it's not too different from the village. But the busyness here is a different sort of busyness entirely than in the village. This is a sort of busyness where you don't have a choice, you don't have a voice and peace and purpose.

Right now I am putting fries in the cage - well that's not what it's really called but it's what we call it - to get them ready to dunk in oil. I finish my task in a few moments and I swirl the fries in the hot oil. I let them cool, moving to put some burger patties on the grill. The next order comes in, and it's for a frosted brownie, so I quickly put frosting on a pre-made brownie.

Orders come in and I work away, making the food that I need to make. My team around me moves busily through their own tasks. We work together in unison. And there's almost something beautiful about it. Almost. Because this unison, however efficient it is, is altogether forced, and you can see the hard press of powerlessness in the way that we talk to each other.

Time goes by swimmingly fast and eventually I can put my apron up on the hook on the wall and I can get on the train and go back into the world I am much more familiar with. I'm lucky that I only have to work once a week.

———-

"So this is for pain in the lower back," Oakley explains to us, holding up the scraggly-looking plant with long, thin stems and only slightly thicker leaves. We are in the healing tent, Amber, Justin and I, and we are having a lesson on healing from one of the senior healers in the village.

"If the pain is sharp and burning, and feels like many pins inside the body pressing down at once, and if it comes and goes in waves, that is when you administer this medicine," they continue. "Administer one half cup every ten to fifteen minutes, and keep doing that until the pain goes away. After that, feed them two cups and tell them to get rest. Do you understand, students?"

"Yes," we answer in a messy unison.

"Good. I will show you how to prepare it."

They purify the rock table in front of them using fire. And we all pay close attention as they work.

"First cut the leaves from the stem, and seep them in boiling water." They put the leaves on the pot over the fire. "And for the stems, use your fingers to peel them lengthwise into tiny strands, as small as you can make them." We watch Oakley work, creating many fine, almost hair-like strings out of the long strands. "This part is difficult," they tell us, "and you really have to pay attention. Got it?"

"Got it," we echo, keeping our eyes on Oakley as they continue peeling the stems.

"Stir the water every few minutes," they explain to us, "and keep an eye on the water level. If it is boiling too fast, take the pot off of the fire for a bit. Which I'm sure you all know how to do."

"Yes," we reply, enraptured by their demonstration. I love healing. I love making people feel better. We all do. And we all love learning about healing, learning about how to make people feel better. In addition to healing, I love working with the plants of the forest and with all of the gifts that the forest has to offer us.

"The water should be boiling slowly and softly. Almost simmering, but not quite. You should throw in ground up jako bark into the pot after it has boiled for ten minutes, in order to help the medicine become absorbed into the body. After that, you should add in the stem strands." They put in the pre-ground bark, bark that we have a constant supply of in the healing tent, on account of how much we need it. They then add in the stems, and keep stirring.

"How long does this need to boil for?" Amber asks.

"Good question, Amber. This takes a long time to make. It usually takes about an hour. The resulting solution will be very concentrated."

"Alright. Thanks."

"Any other questions?"

"How will we know when it's ready?" I ask.

"Good question, Terry. You know by the colour. Once it's a bright, deep green, then it is ready to be taken off of the pot. I will show you all once it's ready."

"Okay."

"Once it's ready," Oakley continues, "it would be served warm. Not scalding, but warm enough that the patient can feel it. If it gets cold, you will need to warm it up again. Not until it boils, but just until the water becomes warmer. Got it?"

"Yep," we answer all together

"And remember, always, healing water does not come from the river. Healing water comes from a spring surrounded by reddish earth."

"Of course," we reply, because we all knew that. It's one of the first things that we are taught.

"When you are stirring," Oakley continues explaining, "do not just stir in one direction. Switch directions every couple of turns. And this will agitate the water so that it soaks up more of the plants' essences."

"Alright."

"Any other questions?" They ask.

"When we are administering the medicine," Justin begins, "should we tell the patient to drink it all at once or in little sips?"

"Good question. For this medicine, drinking it all at once is good, so that it does not lose its heat during the time in which it is drank. The heat also helps the sickness, and it helps the patient to feel better.”

"And what if the patient is a child and cannot handle hot things?" Amber asks.

"Good question. Then it would do well to distract them using a story or a song while they drink the solution."

We keep listening and watching as Oakley teaches us, paying close attention to everything. I feel so full of love and connection and purpose. As I always do when I am healing anyone or learning about healing. I am so grateful that this knowledge still survives within us, even if it's in a limited capacity. I am so grateful that we can still heal each other. That we can still help each other. The Creator knows that we need it.

Especially since the healing infrastructure of the outsiders' is closed to us. The outsiders, they have ways to heal themselves too. They have great ways to heal themselves, ways which are very powerful. They are not like our traditional methods of healing, and are rather strange. But they work really well. The problem is that the hospitals and clinics of the outsiders cost a lot of money to go to, money that us rainforesters do not have.

But still, the medicine from the rainforest is free, it's free to us all, and it doesn't cost anything for us to heal each other. So, relying on the rainforest, we can get by.

———

"What the hell do we do?" Tom asks. His voice is saturated with dread. We are all gathered here together in the grassy roads of the village. The whole village. All crowded together at once. All crowded together as one. In one horrible ritual, the ritual of disaster. There is so much tension in the air that you could almost cut it with a knife. I feel nauseous. I cannot breathe.

"We fight." Sheila's voice presses hard and determined and confident. "We cannot let them take our rainforest from us. We just cannot."

"There is already barely any rainforest left," old woman Sallie speaks. "We are on the edges of one of the last remaining stretches of healthy forest. We cannot let them destroy it."

"We need the rainforest," young Alyssa tells us. "We need it to live. Even the outsiders need it to live. Everyone needs it to live."

"You're right," Derek, a middle-aged man, tells her. "We all need it, everyone needs it. We must protect it."

And we are figuring out what to do right now. We are figuring out how to protect the rainforest. How to protect our people. How to protect all of the people of the world. That's why we're all gathered here together. That's why we are all talking together. Because we need to find a solution, or we need to find something, something that will help us.

"Can you read the government notice again?" Joss, a young adult, asks Raina.

"Sure," the teenaged girl replies, holding on tight with white fingers the small, unassuming sheet of paper in her hands.

"People of Gale Village," she begins, voice shaking, "you have a six months notice to leave the village, and to resettle yourselves into housing elsewhere, such as in the city. Your village life is destructive to yourselves and to society at large." She pauses to take a few shaky breaths. "What's more," her voice sounds almost numb, "there will be development within your area. The Baltsone Corporation will be building an open pit iron mine in the area, and remaining close to this mine will cause health hazards from inhaling or ingesting the chemicals given off by the mine. If you do not leave, you will suffer health consequences."

"I know what open pit mines do," old man Harry tells us gravely and solemnly. "They cut through the forest, tearing through it and destroying it and causing a large, ever-growing open wound within the forest. This open wound, these large sashes of cut away dirt, wounds that keep growing, they make the forest sick and it slowly dies, losing its vitality bit by bit. Not only that, but the poisons that are given off by the mines, they get into the air, into the soil, into the water. And they poison the forest and everything around it. The noise from the machines, constant and grating, it scares away the animals. And there are so many ways that the forest dies. I know this because my last village had to resettle because of the destruction of a mine."

"If the mine would poison us," the youth Emerson begins, "then surely it would poison the forest as well."

"We are learning about mines in school," Clare begins, voice high-pitched and full of fear, "they cause a lot of habitat destruction. They cut through and destroy a large swathe of the forest, breaking the forest up so that it dies slowly."

"Exactly," the old woman Arielle echoes. "The edges that are made where the mine meets the forest, in those edges, too much light gets in. This causes the plant growth of the forest to become out of balance, and with it the animal life becomes out of balance too. Predators use these edges to over hunt their prey, causing chaos to the intricate interdependence of things. And invasive animals use the edges to hide themselves and cause destruction to the land. The extra light coming in dries out the forest and causes fire hazards. The poison from the mine also makes all the animals, the plants, the insects, the fungi, it makes everything weaker, makes them sickly and dying. The forest will be cut through into even smaller pieces, and animals will not be able to move freely and safely. Everything will die."

"We always knew the outsiders had no respect for the rainforest," Annalese, a woman in her middle years, states. "We all know that whenever they do any kind of 'development' in the rainforest, it hurts the intricate web of life. We have to protect this part of the forest. It's the only good, clean, strong part that we have left."

"We have to fight," the adult Grey restates. "We simply have to. We can't lose this forest. We can't." We all agree with them.

"Besides," young Gerald tells us, "we need the forest for food and for medicine. We literally need it to live. Without it we would die."

"Well, fuck," Tom declares.

"And the outsiders need it too," an older person named Armin explains. "The rainforest gives them good air to breathe and clean water to drink. It makes their land fruitful and fertile, making their farms yield large sums of food. It protects them from floods, from storms, from droughts. It keeps them safe from pest infestations and protects against the emergence of new diseases."

"But are we strong enough to fight?" Emmet, an older man, asks us. And he's got a good point. He's got a really good point. The outsiders and their government and their police are very strong. They're well-equipped. They'd be really difficult to go against. They'd be really difficult to take down.

"We tried to go against them in the times long since gone by," the young girl Sarah reminds us. "We rebelled against them. We fought them. But they defeated us."

A lot of the villagers gathered around agree with her. There is discord and disorder for a while, as everyone talks at once. I don't say anything. I can't say anything. I am far too horrified at the news that my people have just received. I can only stare out in horror. I can only listen to my community all around me, the community that I love, as it descends into chaos.

Eventually the chaos dies down and there is only a tense, terrible stillness as everyone looks around with disturbed, hopeless faces.

"That was a long time ago," another young girl, Gerda, speaks out. "That was a long time ago and things have changed now. Things are better now. The government doesn't try to kill us anymore. The government won't try to kill us anymore. Even if we fight them. They've changed and become less terrible."

There is an obvious sigh of relief amongst the crowd, as many people join to agree with her.

"But what do we do?" An older adult named Noah asks.

"We have to try," a little girl named Availe responds. "We have to try our best, with everything that we have."

"And how do we know we can win?" A middle-aged woman named Dhalia asks, voice soft and serious.

"Because," a young man named Raymond starts, "we have the rainforest. We have the rainforest and all its power and all its protection and all its hope. We have all its love and all its strength. That's enough. It should be enough." There is determination in his voice. There is a sense of awe and amazement in his voice. There is wonder in all of us.

In all of our faces, male and female and both and between and neither, I feel the seedling of hope, of courage, of power. I see that seedling taking root and starting to grow and starting to blossom into something undeniable. Into something beautiful. I see the way the energy of these streets is shifting, the way the power flowing through all of us is starting to come alive.

I no longer feel hopeless anymore. I no longer feel like we have to give up without a fight.

"But can we make it?" I ask into the crowd.

"Even if we can't," old woman Emmaline, with her wise eyes, tells us, "even if we can't make it, we will have tried. And that's what will matter. That we tried. Because the rainforest gave us so much. It protected us so much. We have to return the favour."

"For ourselves, for each other, for the rainforest, and for humanity," a young child, Kadenne, adds, triumphant.

"I'd rather try and fail than not try at all," a teenaged girl, Laya, speaks out. And she's so right. She's so, so right. We all cheer for her in encouragement.

"But what should we do?" a little boy, Ryan, asks. "How do we protect the forest?"

And he's right. He's so very right. Now that we have a goal, now that we have all agreed on what we're going to do, we have to find out a way to actually do it. And that is kind of the hard part. We don't have much power. We know that we don't have many resources. So we have to make what we do have work. We have to win somehow from the position that we're in, which is a practically disadvantaged position, even if it's spiritually more advantaged.

But we have to try. With everything we have, we have to try. Because there is everything to lose. And so we talk to each other. We talk to each other and we keep talking to each other until we have heard almost every type of plan out there. And we keep talking to each other until we've weighed out the advantages and and disadvantages of each plan. We change and add to each other's ideas and we give support to all the creativity of all the people.

In the meanwhile, people come and go from the group, going to go get food for the village or to get medicine or to prepare food. People eat and drink and children play.

But the group in general remains, though its composition constantly fluctuates, talking to each other on the crowded street, for four nights and four days, until finally, finally, we all come to an agreement.

———

Sheila and I are in a crowded corner of the city, doing something we have never done before. The city is so strange. So busy. So hard. So noisy. So sharp. So bright. I will never get used to it but I can bear it. Especially for the sake of saving the rainforest.

"Hi!" Sheila speaks brightly to a young woman passing by, "are you interested in saving the rainforest from destruction?" The woman passes by, not giving us a second glance.

"Hi," I speak to a group of middle-aged people, "would you like to save the rainforest from being harmed?"

"No thanks," one of them replies in an apathetic and slightly awkward way.

"Okay, thanks!" I tell him. I actually have so much hatred for him in my heart, so much hatred for all of these people who are just passing by us like it's nothing, like they don't care at all what is happening to us. But I've got to get through these people. I've got to get through these people so that I can find the people who truly want to help us.

"Hi," I ask a girl with thick, dark curls and striking brown eyes, "would you like to help the rainforest not be destroyed?"

She stops in her tracks and gives me a soft smile. My heart warms up.

"What's happening?" she asks.

"The rainforest," I answer, "they're going to build an open pit mine within it. They're going to destroy it." Her eyes widen in concern.

"How can I help?"

"Come to the village, and go to the tent in the middle, closest to the forest. They'll give you tips on what to do. So, basically, we're going to block the road and train tracks leading to the forest for as long as we need to, in order to stop the miners from being able to do any work. We need manpower. We need bodies to stand on the lines with us so that the police can't pull us away."

"That sounds like a great idea. When will this happen?"

"About six months from now. You should go to the village and talk to the people there to get more details. They'll fill you in on everything. Just letting you know though, it will be a long term commitment. Do you think you can help us?"

"Of course I can. I've loved the rainforest since I was a child. We all need it."

"We sure do, sister, we sure do."

"So what else can I do to help?"

"Tell all your family and friends. Get as many supporters to the cause as you can. We need as many people on our side as possible."

"Sure thing. Thanks so much for the opportunity!"

"Thanks for helping us!"

"It's the least I can do." We shake hands and she walks off down the busy streets.

"Great job, Terry!" Sheila exclaims, smiling at me.

"Thanks, Sheila. You're doing great too."

"Let's just hope we can get enough people."

"Yeah, let's hope."

We turn ourselves back towards our work, going up to everyone we can and hoping to have good replies. We know there are good people in this city. We know that there are people who care here. It's just that they're rare. They're rare and we need to find them. And that means going through a lot of awkward encounters. That means going through discomfort. It means going through potential attacks even, if that can help the forest be healthy.

The sun eventually sets and the blue of twilight is upon us. I have managed get ten indoviduals and two small groups on our side so far. Sheila managed to get a few more people than me. We did great. We both did great. And we are proud of the work that we did. We stick around until the street empties, and then we wait for the midnight train to take us back into the village.

"It was amazing working with you," Sheila tells me softly, tiredness in her voice, in the quietness of the fully-automated bus.

"It was great working with you too."

"Today was so strange. I've never done anything like this before."

"Me neither. But I liked it."

"So did I."

———

It's the day. The day we're supposed to stand up to the mining company, to the government, to everyone who opposes us. I woke up four hours before dawn and made the walk to where the parallel lines of the road and the train line went to the village. I wasn't the only one. There were scores of people coming out to meet us. One third of the village, everyone who didn't have to do work or go gathering. Bucketfuls of people from the city, people who I have never met before or only met briefly. We are all gathered together on the road and train tracks, numbering perhaps two thousand all together. We are all together.

I feel more fear than I have ever felt in my life. I think, perhaps we all feel such fear. But there is also this strange sort of amazement. There is this strange sort of hope. Energy I could never be able to describe flows through all of us. I feel as if all of us, here together, are exactly where we are meant to be.

We form many thick rows, rows upon rows of tightly-packed bodies. And we all hold each other. We hold each other as tightly as we possibly can, linking arms in an intricate pattern. And we wait. We simply wait.

"Who would like to hear a traditional song?" Oakley asks the crowd. There is cheering all around. The medicine teacher starts to sing the song of winter nights, which is a calming melody. All of us who know the song join in. And we sing. And we keep singing until there are support workers from the village coming to us with our breakfast.

We all thank each other, and thank the Creator for giving us this good food. We eat quickly, trying to get our physical needs met as efficiently as possible so that we may all link arms again and form a long, unbroken matrix with each other.

"I hope we can win," the young man beside me speaks, eyes as blue as the morning sky. He's from the city, and a stranger to me. Still, despite the brief time we've known each other he feels like a brother to me.

"Even if we can't win, we will have tried," I tell him. And I hope it's enough. I really hope it's enough. "Our love and our energy can help the rainforest, even if it can't save it."

"I've never been in the rainforest," he admits.

"Oh, it's beautiful. You should totally go one day. I'll take you."

"You will? Thank you so much!"

"Don't even mention it. Everyone deserves to witness the rainforest. It's really awesome."

"You're so sweet."

"Aww, you are too."

We keep talking until I can see the trucks full of construction equipment lumbering their way up the road. I guess this is the moment of truth. I guess this is when everything starts. I breathe deeply and look straight ahead, ready for anything and everything that comes.

The trucks slow to a stop, towering in front of us with their metallic flares. They're driverless, so nobody comes out to greet us. It will be a while yet before the authorities come. We have time. Not much time but we have time.

I am fed water and food by the people behind me. It's an incredibly awkward process but we need to all stay in formation. We need to all stay linked to each other. I can barely gulp it down though as my anxiety grows and grows.

"Let's sing a warrior song," Sarah suggests from her place in the line. We tried to keep her home but she absolutely insisted that she'd come with us. She'd come with us or else she'd go on hunger strike. She's too spirited, that girl.

We teach the outsiders the song of the dancing warrior. And it's a simple song. Simple yet powerful. We all sing together. Voices that can speak the words properly and voices that are trying their best. All here, together. All warriors, ready for whatever battles come ahead. And it is this song that we are singing when finally representatives from the company, from Baltstone, come up to us.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the middle-aged man in a dress shirt demands at us, fuming. He has three men flanking him on either side, all wearing dress shirts, all enraged.

"We won't let you build this mine," a rainforester youth named Mani declares clearly and without fear.

"Get out of the way if you know what's good for you! You have been told to leave!"

"We won't," Laya speaks clearly and surely.

The men stride up to her and grab her by the shoulders. They shake her, trying to wrest her apart from the hold of those on either side of her. But Laya holds on with everything she has. She holds on with everything she has, and the two outsiders on either side of her hold on with everything that they have.

All seven of the men attack her at once, grabbing and pulling on whatever parts of her body that they can. But still, she stays strong. Still, she stays unbowed. And they can't wrest her apart from the line. They can't separate her from our ranks.

They eventually give up and start attacking other people in the front row, trying to find a weak link. But they can't find a weak link. We are, all of us, infinitely strong. And we are, all of us, holding each other. And they can't tear us apart.

"We will be back," the man who spoke earlier threatens. But they leave. They all leave. We won this very first round.

Cheers echo throughout, as blockers and the support people alike, rainforesters and outsiders alike, all express their intense joy at this glorious, victorious moment.

———

They do come back. They come back with more men. With scores of men to aid them at breaking us apart. But we don't let them. We don't let them do anything.

We stand there in the cold, chilly nights and the hot, burning days, letting the weather wash over us. We endure their goons for hours and hours on end. Until our minds and bodies are exhausted. But still we do not give up. Still we do not lessen our effort, our focus, our force. We keep holding on to each other with all the strength imaginable, all the strength possible, no matter how tired we get.

We keep going. For the rainforest. For each other. For humanity. For the future.

I don't think I have ever been as deeply in love as I am now, enduring the unrelenting attacks of the mining men. They grab and grope my arms and my chest and my stomach and my shoulders and my sides. They pull me and pull me and pull me. Until I am aching and hurting absolutely everywhere. Still, with Darren on one side and the outsider, Ray, on the other, I stand strong. We cling to each other for dear life. No matter what happens we cling to each other.

"Another round won," Ray exclaims into the dark night once the men are backing away. Backing away to rest and to regroup.

"Hell yes," I agree.

"It's only been two days," Darren reminds us, older and more serious than the two of us are. "What will happen when we need to sleep? What will happen when we need to rest?"

"Then we'll be replaced by the new wave of rainforest defenders," I tell him. "Just like we planned."

"I just hope we can keep this up," Darren sighs.

"I hope so too," Ray echoes.

I take a break to go to the washroom. And when I'm back to my place in the line, the men are coming again. I hold my body tense and keep my mind as focused as possible on the mission at hand. I'm a warrior. I'm a warrior. I'm a warrior. I'm a warrior and I will fight. I will win.

Rough hands grab my forearms and my wrists. Me and the men on either side of me draw closer together, tense up our muscles. Hands grab my shoulders. And they pull. They all pull at once. But I pull back. I pull on the arms interlinking to my own and I pull them tight close to me, and they pull me tight close to them. We are one. We are one. We are one. Nothing can break us for we are one.

My arms are burning. They are in so much pressure. They are in so much pain. But still, I keep them as strong as rock and as flowing with life force as a tree. I ignore the burning, the aching, the pressure. I ignore the burning and I keep holding on. Holding on so tight that I hurt myself. Holding on so tight that I'm sure I've used up all my strength.

I've used up all my strength but somehow I still have more. Somehow I still have an infinite supply. I know why. It's because all of us fighting here are drawing strength from each other. It's because we are all drawing strength from that rainforest. And these forces will give us infinite strength.

The hands on my body are rough and groping. They are devoid of any kindness, of any mercy, of any peace. They pull me as if they want to pull my very essence itself away from me. They pull me like they want to grab me and capture me and own me. They pull me as if they are trying to catch me and capture me and own me. But I do not let them win. I do not let them win and I keep holding onto myself for as long as I possibly can.

They change tactics. Instead of grabbing my arms, they grab my legs. They try to pull my legs out from under me. But I lean back and I stay strong and I do not let them. I do not let them at all. It's hard. Unbelievably, unbearably hard. But I keep my feet planted on the ground. Through everything, through the constant barrage of violence and violation, I keep my feet planted on the ground.

Darren grunts above me and Ray lets out a scream. All around me people are groaning and crying out. Not just from the ranks of the rainforest defenders but from the ranks of the miners as well. There is so much chaos and sound around me. But I do not focus on it. I focus only, instead, on staying strong. On maintaining the integrity of our formation. I don't think I have ever been this focused in my life. This focus is more than the focus of gathering, more than the focus of healing. It's more than the focus of my job. More than the focus of telling stories. And it's great and terrible and incredibly beautiful all at the same time.

I cannot tell how much time has passed, I can only tell that my body feels like it's on fire, feels like it's being crushed under rocks, feels like it is bleeding everywhere, in all my muscles and my bones. I think probably I am becoming bruised. But still, I make all my muscles work. I make them work and I make them work and I make everything that is inside me work.

The sky turns lighter, the first electric blue of the morning. And finally, finally the attackers leave us. They go to the many camping trailers they have set up all around the road and they go to sleep. It's time to change our ranks. It's time to give those who haven't stood in the lines a chance to.

Of course we are very very careful to not disrupt or decrease the strength and integrity of our lines as we replace them. We let ourselves out only once the new people behind us have formed their own line. For a moment we join both lines together in an especially crowded line. And then we melt away into the background, ready to provide our warriors with the support that they need to keep fighting.

I sigh in relief once I am safely out of the crowd. I did it. We did it. We held out. We're still holding out.

I need to sleep.

———

We've been going at this for months. For terrible, burning, exhausting months. For beautiful, melodious, purposeful months. Months where I have felt emotions that I hadn't even known existed. Months where the lines between us and the outsiders were both more blurred than ever and more sharp than ever, as we all came together in solidarity.

So far everything's been going well. We've been hungry. We've been beaten and bruised and exhausted. But we've been winning. I just hope we can keep this energy up. I hope that our luck doesn't turn.

I'm back at the front of the lines again, this time arm in arm with Sheila on one side and Sarah on the other. It's horrible, like it always is, being pulled at and yanked at and squeezed. It's violence but it's violence that I can handle. It's violence that I have handled before and handled well. It's not new to me anymore. Not that it hurts any less. But I'm confident I can take it.

Still, it's so strange being beside Sarah, being beside a mere child of twelve years old, and seeing her go through the same violence that I'm going through, that we're all going through. She deserves to be at home playing. She deserves to be having safety and fun, without a single care in the world. She deserves that, but she insisted that she doesn't want that. She insisted that as long as there is a battle to fight, she'll be fighting in it.

I can't worry too much about keeping her safe though since I need to focus on keeping the formation safe. Still though, her standing there beside me, arm in arm with me, it absolutely haunts me.

So far nothing out of the ordinary has happened. It's being annoying. This whole ordeal is being annoying. But still, we are only standing up against Baltstone thugs and we are only taking what they've been giving us these past few months. There is violence. Oh definitely, there is violence. But it's not nearly as violent as it could get. No-one is getting seriously hurt.

I think the presence of the outsider rainforest defenders is playing a big part to this lack of violence. They're the kind of people this society actually likes. There's only a certain amount of violence that can be used on them.

I'm being pulled at and squeezed and squished. My muscles are burning, my joints are burning, everything is burning. But it's okay. I can take this.

The men finally back off and leave to go regroup. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"I hope they're gone for a while," Sarah speaks.

"Oh, I hope so too," Sheila replies. "I hope we can get some rest."

"And to be honest, they probably need some rest too," I add in.

We keep talking, alert for any sign of the men coming back or anything weird happening. It does seem, however that the men are going to stay away from us for a while.

This fact does not give me peace. I do not know why they are not coming back. I do not know what is coming next.

"Good job, guys," Sarah comments to us.

"You're the one who's out here despite being twelve," the outsider beside her, Rachel, replies.

"Let's just hope we can stay out here for longer," I speak.

"Whatever comes next, I'm sure we can take it." Sheila's voice is sure and strong.

We keep talking until we see the flashing lights of a police car come up in the distance. This is not good. Not good at all. But still, we have taken on the company thugs. The police cannot be much worse. We can take them on as well. What are they going to do to us, kill us? They're not allowed to do that anymore. And they're definitely not allowed to do that in front of our outsider supporters. We're not in more danger than we already were in. If they teargas us, we can take the stinging and the burn and we can stay strong through it.

We all bring ourselves closer to each other, holding on to each other tightly. This is, very probably, the final round of our battle. After that, we need to keep a lookout for any intruders. But we can rest easy.

The police cars slow to a stop in front of us. Like well-coordinated soldiers, the police come marching up to our lines. They have pure hatred in their eyes and disdain all over their faces. They have guns on their hips and body armour over their chests. They make me shiver ever so slightly.

"What do you guys think you are doing?" A muscular, well-built cop demands of us.

"Protecting the rainforest," Sheila declares back.

"You're holding up our economy is what you are doing." The cop spits these words out with rage and contempt.

"We're saving our world!" A female outsider retorts.

"Saving the world?" the cop spits, "Preposterous nonsense!"

"We're the ones who know the truth," Sheila responds. "You are blinded by your greed and ignorance."

"You are simple, stupid people," the police officer barks, "and you do not know anything. You especially do not know how this civilization runs!"

"We know how the rainforest runs, and what the rainforest needs." Sarah's voice is clear and unafraid. "We know how humanity runs and what humanity needs. And humanity needs the rainforest."

"You fools!" the cop bellow, "Especially you, child, how could you know anything about how the world works?!"

"She knows more than you ever will," Sheila states.

"And we all know more than you ever will," I add.

"You are blinded by your sentimentality and your emotion," the cop spits back.

"You are blinded by your greed and by your complacency," I retort.

"You have to leave." His voice is dead serious, like a cold stone.

"We won't." Sheila's voice is equally serious.

"I'm telling you," he presses, "go. Get away from here and let the company through before you all get in trouble."

"We don't care how much trouble we get into," Sarah exclaims, "you cannot make us move. Isn't that right, everyone?" We all cheer.

"Get out right now before I am forced to do something you'll all regret!" the cop screams.

"No," Sheila simply states.

"Get out. Right now. Go away."

"No," she states again.

"Don't make me do something I will regret," he presses.

"We won't move." Sheila's voice holds no fear.

"You obstinate children!" The police officer yells.

"You fat fucking pig," Sheila replies calmly.

Everything happens all at once. The cop reaches for the gun on his hip. Sheila's eyes go wide. Before any of us can do anything, he shoots. Sheila slumps back, all the strength having left her body. And everything inside me goes red. Everything around me goes red.

Before I even know what I am doing, I am on him, my hands around his throat. There is nothing I can think except for the fact that Sheila is dead. Sheila is dead. Sheila is dead. My best friend is dead. There is nothing I can do. Nothing except reap bloody vengeance.

My hands are around his throat. Around the capitalist fucking pig's thick, meaty throat. And I am squeezing. I'm squeezing with all my might. I'm squeezing with strength I didn't even know I had. And he's struggling underneath me, trying to pry me off. But all his muscles are no match for my overwhelming grief, no match for my sheer rage.

"Die, die, die, you capitalist goon!" I scream at the top of my voice. And I squeeze tighter. And eventually all his struggling stops and he goes limp underneath me.

I look around. Everyone is simply staring at me, forest defender and police officer and company thug alike. They're all staring at me as if they are in a trance. And I feel like I am in a trance. But all too soon, the spell breaks.

The police pile on to me, all of them at once. And they push me face first into the hot, rough asphalt of the road. There is overwhelming pressure above me on my back as my arms are pulled together and put in handcuffs. I fight. Of course I fight. But there are four cops on me. I can't take them all at once. There is yelling all around me, from the police, and from the onlookers. There is yelling all around me but I cannot listen to it.

All I can think of is the fact that Sheila is dead. Sheila is dead. The young woman who played with all the children in the village and entertained them. The woman who spent long nights staring up at the stars with all of us. The person who had so much spirit and so much hope and so much rage to share with all of us and with the world in general. The woman who knew where to find what plants in the rainforest, and who wasn't afraid to kill something if she needed to. That woman was gone. Gone forever.

A police officer slams my head into the road. And my whole world goes white in searing, aching pain. My head throbs and my nose feels like it has been snapped into two. It probably has been. My whole face flows hot like magma in the hurt.

I am dragged into the back of a police car. And the door slams shut above me. Before I know it, we are driving away. Away from the village and away from all the people who are mine.

———

The jail cell they put me into isn't terrible, I will admit. It's bare, with one metal shelf on one side that serves as a bed, a few blankets softening the hard metal. There is a small bathroom parted by a curtain. And there isn't really anything else. But it's clean, and nobody bothers me.

But the problem is that I'm alone. I'm so alone and all my thoughts are flooding through me absolutely out of control. They're out of control and all I can do is drown in them. All I can do is let them overwhelm me like a hurricane ripping through my mind. There is no one to talk to. No-one to give me comfort. No-one to ease my grief and my sorrow and my anxiety.

I think about Sheila, about how much I miss her, about how empty I am without her. About how much I'm sure everyone misses her. I think about how horrific and unjust her death was. About how much the world will miss her kind, passionate, amazing presence. I think about how it's unlikely that my people could hold a funeral for her, given that they still have to fight the mining company. And I think about how grief must weigh heavy on everyone's hearts.

I think about whether my people are still able to fight. I wonder what the police have done. I wonder if they have killed anyone else. I wonder if they've mowed down our ranks one by one until there were none of us left to oppose them. I think about how determined we were to fight no matter that the cost was. I wonder if we are still fighting, if we are still able to stay strong, if we are still protecting the rainforest against whatever the police and the company are doing to us.

I think about what will happen to me, after my trial is over. I murdered a police officer. Well, murder is not the right word. But I definitely did kill a police officer. And multiple witnesses saw it. I'll be going to jail for certain, there is no doubt about that. But will I be in jail forever? Will I ever see my people again, will I ever get to go home again? Will there even be a home left for me to go back to once everything is said and done?

I don't know. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. All I do know is that I can hope. And I can pray.

So, sitting on the ground with my head looking up towards the Creator, I do pray. I pray that Sheila has been returned to the rainforest from which she came. I pray that she has gone back to her origins, and is part of the flow of life within the rainforest now. I pray that my people can win against the government and the mining company. I pray that we can keep the rainforest safe. I pray that no-one else had to die from the invaders' wrath. And I pray for myself, too. I do pray for myself, but mostly I pray for my people. That they're safe. That they're fighting. That they're winning. And I pray for the rainforest.

I think the Creator can hear me. Even though there is thick concrete between myself and the sky, I am sure that the Creator can hear me, that They can see me, that my prayers will not go unanswered. Praying gives the world strength. It gives the Creator strength. It gives the Creator strength so that the Creator can give us all strength and help us. Praying puts cosmic energy out into the world, that helps the world to be safe and healthy, that helps the world to commit revolution.

So I am helping my people. Even if I can't be on the front lines with them right now, I am still helping them.

"Terry La Croix, you are called for the evening meal," a rough voice outside the door says, pulling me out of my thoughts for a moment. I get up as my cell is opened and guards escort me to the eating area.

The room is large. There are tables all over, each table lined by two benches on either side. There is a lineup of people with trays getting food, snaking around the corner along the wall. I join the lineup, and get a heap of the strange brown mush that everyone else is getting. I go to a table and put a spoonful in my mouth. The food is strange and bland, but that's okay. I don't mind.

"What's your name?" the girl beside me asks in a cheerful voice.

"Terry. What's yours?"

"Bright. So what are you in here for? If you want to talk about it, that is."

———

Today is my court date. I am taken in chains to the polished, carved, wooden room that makes up the court. All the walls are made of aesthetic, expensive wood, and so are the high tables with carvings on their sides. The floor has a thick green carpet and all the chairs have thick, green padding that seems very plush and very comfortable. I have never been somewhere even resembling this strange place. It unnerves me.

My wrists are shackled together. My feet are shackled together. There is a collar around my neck attatched to two chains held on either side by a guard. I feel so very humiliated standing like this in a room full of people. People staring impassionately on as I am having one of the worst times of my life.

"Terry La Croix," the judge speaks coolly, "you are here in front of the court facing charges on the assault and murder of an officer of the law. How do you plead?"

I am pulled to the testimony stand. And I stand there. I look out at all the people in the court. I look at the judge and the police officers. I look at all the members of the public crammed into their chairs, eager to get a front row seat to all the drama and the intrigue that this trial brings. I look at all the cameras and news reporters here, no doubt ready to broadcast my words onto live TV. It's not often at all that something like this happens.

I think of how strange I must look with my bandaged nose and my bruised body and my very many chains. But I keep myself calm. I keep myself cool and collected as I turn to address the crowd.

"I killed a police officer. That is true. But the police officer killed my best friend, he killed a community member, he killed a woman who was standing up for her people and for your people as well. Sheila Wexley was a beautiful, radiant soul. And we are not able to even have a funeral for her. We are not able to have a funeral for her because your companies are invading onto our land and seeking to destroy all that both of out peoples need." My voice is clear and does not shake. I am so overcome with emotion that I do not know how my voice does not shake. But I keep my gaze steady on everyone in the room. And I make sure they know how dead serious I am.

"The rainforest is sacred," I continue. "It's not just sacred to my people, though it is sacred to my people. But it is sacred to everyone who needs air to breathe, everyone who needs good, pure water to drink, everyone who needs good, rich soil to grow food. It is sacred to everyone who needs protection from storms and floods. It is sacred to everyone who needs to live.

"Our rivers, our water, our trees and shrubs and herbs, our rocks and earth and animals. They all protect us. They all protect us all and they provide for us all. And not only that, but they are the bedrock of my peoples' identity.

"My people need the rainforest to soothe their spirits, minds, and hearts. They need the rainforest in order to give them teachings and guidance. The rainforest brings us all together. It brings us all together and it makes us who we are. We go to the rainforest for food, because what your government and what your economy gives us is not enough for us to survive. We go to the rainforest for healing and medicines, for we are shut out by your fancy medical systems.

"I am a traditional healer. I cure all the sicknesses and injuries of my people. I help whoever comes to me for help. And I do it all free of charge. I do it free of exchange. I do it free of all attachments, so that everyone who needs healing can come to me for healing and can get what they need. This is the way of our people. This is the way it has been since time immortal. When we help each other, we do not demand anything in return. We simply help each other to help each other.

"And all that is possible because of the rainforest. Without its providence I would not be able to cure anyone or to ease anyone's bodily, mental, and spiritual suffering.

"The mine will destroy the rainforest. There is no other way to it. The mine will simply destroy the forest we all need to live. It will create a large, gaping, open wound in the rainforest, a wound that will only grow and grow and destroy the forest all around it. It will poison the water, the soil, and the air, and will scare away the animals with its noise. Only one piece of healthy, intact rainforest is left and we all dearly need it.

"Your people are filled with greed in your hearts. You want more and more and more luxury. You want more and more and more wealth. All you see is how much you want, how much you want to take. Your companies want power and they want to rule over their workers and do whatever they want. Your governments are the slaves to those companies, and they aid the owners of the companies in doing whatever they can to have more wealth and have more power and to bring more destruction into the people and the lands.

"You cannot see beyond your own greed to see all the people that you're killing, to see all the places that you're killing, to see all the lives you are destroying and leaving to rot. The lives of rainforesters and outsiders alike are being harmed and destroyed by your greed and your unending hunger. But you don't see the destruction that you bring. You don't see the death that you bring to so, so many people.

"All you see is your desire to have more. And it's all fake. All that you chase after, all that you long for, all that you hurt the people and the land in order to get, it's all fake. All your material items and technology doesn't have life in it. It doesn't have spirit in it.

"But the people have spirits. The people and the land and the air and the water, the plants and the rocks and the animals and the fungi, they all have spirits. They all have life. You are destroying that life, killing that life, to create things that do not have spirits, that do not have lives.

"Your greed knows no bounds but our love knows no bounds either. The love that all the hurt people, that all the marginalized people, rainforester and outsider alike, have for each other, the love that we share, knows no bounds. The love that we have for the land, the love that the land has for us, knows no bounds. And that love will never die. No matter how much you kill us or how much you kill the land, all the love will never die, all of our spirits will never die.

"And we will triumph. We will come up triumphant. No matter what you do to us or how much you beat us down, we will come up triumphant, eventually, and all your wealth and all your luxury and all your power systems will fall. They will all fall and everything that is sacred will become free again.

"My people will fight, and our supporters will fight. We will fight with everything that we have, so that you cannot win. And all that fighting and all that trying and all those battles both physical and mental and spiritual, they will mean something one day. They will guide us to victory one day. Things will get better, and hope will prevail, no matter what you do to any of us. No matter what you do to me.

"So if you want to jail me, go ahead and jail me. I killed one of the enforcers of your power and your hegemony. I killed one of the enforcers of your rule and your wealth. And if you want to jail me for that, go ahead. But you will also receive your just rewards for all the death and the destruction that you have caused.

"Sheila's spirit has retuned to the rainforest, the place where all her energy flowed from. And my own spirit will meet her when it's time."

I finish my speech and look right at the cameras. They are all trained directly on me. All the reporters are gaping at me with wide eyes. Journalists are scrambling to write down notes.

All the people in the courtroom, who came here to watch the proceedings, are also staring at me with wide eyes. They look dazed, amazed. Many of them are holding their hands up towards me, recording me with their bracelets and rings and other tech jewelry.

I meet all their eyes with solemn, determined eyes of my own.

"So you plead guilty then?" The judge asks after a long while of silence.

"I guess I do," I reply.

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

The apartment was more of a box, really. More of a box than an actual home. It could fit Alena and it could fit her brother Kumiko and not many people else. Their parents had once lived here too, which made the little hut much more crowded but much more homely. But it couldn't fit many people. That was okay. The hallway was large enough. Was large enough to fit all the people in the floor in. If only because it was long, its length making up for its lack of width. It often felt like the building itself was their house, and not just their one room.

Kumiko knew that they should not get too comfortable. That the building could collapse at any time. They could be bombed and then, and then what? They would have to leave this place that had come to be home, they would have to leave these people who had come to be home. And they would have to start over again somewhere else. If they even survived the bombing, that is. They might not survive that. They might die at any moment.

And he knew that his sister knew that too. His sister, Alena, was just six years old. Just six. Far too young to be thinking about dying. Too young to be thinking of her friends dying, of her home getting blown to bits. She was too young for the constant hunger that spread its corrosive fingers through all her experiences, too young to be constantly struggling to survive. But this was what she was faced with, what she had to deal with whether she wanted to or not.

Kumiko wished he could give his sister a better life. His sister who he loved more than anything in the world. All their many neighbours wished they could give these orphans a better life as well. They were, all of them, glued together. Glued by bonds of desperation and love. And they tried to make each others' lives as bright as they possibly could.

Alena felt at home when she was with her brother. She felt at home when she was with her neighbours. She knew that the war all around them wanted to take everything from her, wanted to take every security that she had. And she didn't have security. Not really. Every night bombs fell. Every day there was rubble and hunger. There were soldiers patrolling the streets. But she still felt strong, she felt soothed, she felt at home when she was with her people.

Alena awoke before Kumiko one day, as she so often did. She got up from the clay floor she was lying on with her brother. The electric blue shine of the just-before-dawn seeped in through their narrow window. The sky was filled with promise, and the ground was filled with rubble. There was something destroyed about the world at that moment. But there was also something alive, and something tranquil.

"Kumiko. Wake up. It's morning." She gently shook her brother, rousing him from his sleep. Kumiko's eyes were weary, just as they always were. And they were tender, just as they always were when he looked at his sister.

"Hi, little bird," he whispered. "How was your sleep?"

"I had nightmare again," she stated.

"I'm so sorry. I wish I could make it better." Alena often had nightmares. It was a side effect of living in a war zone.

"It's okay. I could cuddle you. And that made me feel so so much better."

"You're so sweet." Kumiko gave her a tired smile.

"You are too."

"Aww, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So, we should get going, should we not?" Kumiko began. "I'm sure you're hungry. And there's food in the childcare centre."

"I am hungry."

"Let's go, then."

There was no food in the house. There was rarely ever food in the house. Kumiko's day job as a mechanic paid enough for rent, paid enough for meagre rice and lentils for him, but Alena got her food at the childcare centre run by the Allitian military, one of the two militaries battling it out in their home. The food at the childcare centre was more plentiful and more nutritious, and for that Kumiko was glad.

The two siblings brushed each others hair with their fingers, rinsed their mouths, and went out to go face the world. They walked down the broken streets, the broken streets made of dust, the broken streets filled with too-thin, ragged people with desperation in their eyes. The people were all like them. They were all devastated in their souls.

There were also soldiers walking through the streets. These soldiers were muscular, were armed with camouflage and guns, were filled with hatred and harshness in their eyes. They were not fighting, thank the gods. They were not fighting here. Instead, they were keeping an eye on the common population. They were making sure that the common people were following the rules, were staying in line, were not causing trouble.

There were many ways to cause trouble on the streets. One could, for example, be saying things against the military, or against the war. People could be gathering together. They could be singing. They could be trying to steal from the soldiers. They could be distributing banned literature. They could be chanting, anything really. They could be telling each other classified information. They could be getting into the bomb-proof trucks the soldiers used. The soldiers had to make sure they weren't doing that.

Alena was terrified of these soldiers that prowled up and down the streets. Kumiko was afraid as well. That's why they held on tightly to each other. That's why they walked closely together, clinging to each other, finding shade in each other's shadows. They saw each other as a force field against the world, though they each knew that the other provided meagre protection against the soldiers.

But Kumiko wanted to protect his sister as much as he could, and Alena knew that.

Thankfully, the soldiers did not accost the small family today, and they were able to drag their aching feet across the aching streets and get to the childcare centre.

The childcare centres was a sturdy building, one built to withstand bombs. The Allitian military did not really care about the civilians in the war. That should be evident, seeing how they regularly bombed people. It should be evident seeing that they regularly captured and tortured ordinary civilians. But they wanted to seem like the good guys. So every once in a while they did something nice for the civilians there. For example, this childcare centre, which had some education but not enough, which had some food but not enough, which had safety. It was rare, to get a spot in a place like this. Kumiko knew he should be grateful.

"I'll miss you," Alena pouted at her brother, not wanting to let go of his hand.

"Don't worry, I'll come pick you up at the end of the day," the brother consoled, crouching down to her eye level. "I have to go to work. You know that I have to go to work. I have to make money. I'll see you at the end of the day, I always do."

"Okay," Alena responded, worry in her voice. She did this every day. She acted as if her brother would not come back for her. But he always did.

"Come on, young Alena," the strangely pale and well-fed Allitian woman inside the building called to her. "We've missed you. We're going to have another fun day!" All the Allitians were strangely pale. They had pale skin and pale eyes and pale hair. They were strangely happy, never being able to see the energy of the people around them.

Alena's brother smiled at her, and he walked away. Alena looked at him for a second, feeling as if he would never come back. She was so afraid. She was so, so very afraid. Losing her brother was her worst fear. It has always been her worst fear. And it was a fear that made her feel like her heart was being constricted in her chest, like she couldn't breathe, like all that she was was being ripped off of her bleeding soul.

But Kumiko did come back. He came back in the evening, as he always did. And Alena was hungry. And she missed him. She smiled widely when she saw him. She smiled like a small child. She was a small child. But it was seldom that she could smile like one. She went to go hug him. But she could not.

"Kumiko," the Allitian lady pressed, "come with me. I have to talk to you in private."

Fear flashed across Kumiko's eyes but he did what he had to do. He followed the orders of the woman, face drawn with darkness.

"What is it?" the brother asked the pale lady when they were in a small room lit with dim flourescent ceiling lights in long rows.

"It's nothing bad. Don't worry. Your sister has been doing very well in her lessons. She's very smart."

"Thank you." Kumiko knew that Alena was smart. He had known that for years. He was just sorrowful that he could not give her a proper education.

"She is exceptionally bright," the woman continued, "and that makes her a perfect candidate for adoption to a nice Allitian family."

Kumiko's eyes went wide. Mostly in horror.

"If she were adopted," the lady explained, "she would be able to live in Allitia. She would be safe from the war, and she would be well fed and well nourished. She would have access to good healthcare, and would have a bright future ahead of her. What do you say?"

"Will I be able to come with her?" he asked.

"No, of course not. The adoption placement is for her alone. You are far too old. But you are her guardian right now, and we need your permission before shipping her to the homeland."

Kumiko thought about it. He really did think about it really hard. He thought about how amazing it would be if Alena was safe and well-educated and well provided for. That was his wildest dream. It was everything that he wanted for her, coming to fruition. And it was such a special chance, a chance to get her out of this accursed country plagued by endless wars and famines and pestilence.

But he thought about what Alena would want. He thought about what Alena would need. And he knew, he knew deep in his heart, that being separated from her brother would be the worst thing possible for her. He knew that it would be beyond devastating to her, that it would drown her in sorrow from which she would never be able to rise.

"I'm sorry," Kumiko started, "but she belongs with me."

"You are letting go of an incredible opportunity," the lady countered.

"I know. But she needs to be with her family."

"If you ever change your mind, let me know. There will always be an opening for her."

"Okay."

"What did she talk to you about?" Alena asked Kumiko when they were finally reunited.

"Oh, nothing," Kumiko lied. "Nothing important." He didn't want his sister to worry. He didn't want her to worry that he could abandon her.

But, as they walked hand and hand down the broken, dusty streets, Alena knew that something was wrong. She knew that something was very deeply wrong. But she could not do anything about it. She felt so lost, so helpless. But at least, she thought, she did not feel alone. She did not feel alone and that was what was the most important. She clung to her brother even harder, walked even closer to him, as they made their way home.

Kumiko kept thinking about the offer that the woman had given him. He wondered if he was making the right choice. He clung to Alena. But he had his doubts.

When they got back into the building, their neighbours greeted them heartily.

"How are you doing, Alena?" young Eojay asked her, brightness in his dark-drenched eyes.

"Not too good."

"I understand," Ameni responded. "It's hard, living like this. You're alive at least. We all are. That's good."

"But what about Raya and Jayvali and Parthi? And Raybanna and Layto?" Alena asked.

These people used to be neighbours. They were dead now. Raya killed by a stray bullet, Parthi was beaten to death by the soldiers, Jayvali was killed in a bombing at their workplace. They were all far too young to die. Raybanna and Layto had both been babies when they died, and they died of illnesses that their parents could not afford to see doctors for. The undernourishment that everyone faced also likely played a part in making them sick.

"I miss them too!" Little Kata added in.

"I know you both miss them, sweethearts. We all do. So much. Hopefully they're somewhere better," Saki stated. She held a squirming baby Kabi in her arms. "And we will be able to see them again. I promise."

"And how's the brother doing?" Karlti asked.

"Fine," Kamiko responded, but there was something deeply perturbed in his eyes, something deeply disturbed. But thankfully, the neighbours did not press the issue any further. Kamiko accepted the sleeping toddler Cayjay into his arms from Ameni.

"Do you want to hear a story?" Karlti asked the small crowd gathered in the hallway. They were met with a chorus of resounding yesses.

"There was a rabbit one day," they started. "A rabbit that lived in a city where there wasn't any food."

"Like us!" young Eojay exclaimed.

"Yes!" Saki replied.

"Anyways," Karlti continued, "the rabbit was very hard pressed for money. But they did not have any. The rich people in the city loved dining on their fine cakes and pastries, and they always wanted more flavourings. One day, the rabbit got an idea. They pooped onto the ground. And they put that poop on a plate. And told the rich people that it was an expensive, rare form of chocolate with a distinct taste."

Everyone started laughing. And the laughter was resounding. They knew what would happen next. And it was resoundingly filling. They wanted to know what would happen next in the story.

"What's next?" Kata pressed.

"The rich people tasted the 'chocolate' and they thought it was a very strange flavour indeed," Karlti responded. "But they though, this must be what the most expensive and rare chacolate tastes like. So they payed the rabbit many silver and gold coins for the 'delicacy.'"

There was more laughter all around.

"If only we could do that with the soldiers," Kumiko spoke.

"Would they be that dumb?" Eojay asked.

"Of course they would be!" Alena answered.

The people, the neighbours, the family of bonds, they continued talking in their little hallway. Trying desperately to make each other believe that in that tiny moment, they were safe. Trying to make each other feel as though they could protect each other. Though, in truth, they could protect each other in a way. They could protect each other's hearts and minds and souls. And that was the best kind of protection that there was.

Eventually, everyone retreated into their individual tiny shacks. And they talked amongst themselves.

"I really liked that story," Alena told her brother.

"Karlti's very creative, are they not?"

"Yes, they really are. And very funny too!"

"You're really funny too!"

"Aww thanks. You're really funny too. We're all really funny."

"Well, we have to be, don't we?"

"I like jokes. They make everything worth it."

"Do they really?"

"Being with you and everyone else makes everything worth it."

Kumiko thought once again about the lady's offer.

Eventually the two siblings went to bed, cuddled close together for heat, for strength, for an entirely psychological sort of safety. And they went to sleep for one more night. When they woke up, the sky was dark.

"Kumiko, wake up," Alena whispered. "It's morning."

"Hi, sweetheart."

They went out for the day, just as all the other residents in their block did. They started walking in the directions they needed to go.

"You, there!" a soldier shouted at the pair. "Where are you going?!" He wasn't Allitian, this soldier, which meant that he looked a bit more like the civilians. But not much. He was much more strongly built and muscular.

"I'm just dropping my sister off and then going to work," Kumiko replied timidly, submissively.

"Not without showing me your papers you're not!" the soldier barked out with hatred in his voice. Kumiko was not too worried about this. He always carried their papers in a small bag with his tools. He got the papers out and handed them to the soldier. The soldier spent a good amount of time looking through them.

"These are out of date!" he spat finally.

Both siblings' eyes went wide with terror. No-one was ever allowed to go anywhere without their papers. The brother and sister pair could easily be killed. The soldier in front of them very well might be the one to do this. Was this the end? They moved closer to each other. Held each other tighter.

"I'm going to let you off this time," the soldier pronounced, "but if I see you ever again with out of date papers, you're dead!"

"Yes, sir!" Kumiko replied. "Thank you immensely, sir."

The soldier left, leaving both siblings pierced through with dread and staring at each other.

"We need to get new papers," Alena stated. "We need to do that right now."

"Yes."

Instead of going to their normal destinations, they started going in the direction of the house of the registrar. They tried to move as quickly and quietly and unassumingly as they could, so that they didn't get the attention of the soldiers. They knew that if another soldier stopped them now, if they asked to see their papers, then the siblings were dead. They knew they couldn't be walking out in the open like this, unsheilded by their official passes.

Finally, after what seemed like both a millennium and a moment, they got to the large house of the registrar. The house was made of stone, and had many stained glass windows. There was a wide stone staircase leading up to it. It was impressive, and it was untouched by bombs. Before they could get to the top of the stairs though, the door opened and a man in ripped clothing was thrown down the stairs. The siblings stared at the man for a moment before making their way up the stairs.

"Who is it?" the elderly registrar asked when Kumiko knocked on the door.

"Kumiko an Alena Daydali," the brother replied. "We're looking to get our papers renewed."

"Come in."

The house was even more impressive on the inside. There were many soft chairs, many bookshelves filled to the brim with an unaccountable number of books. There were many little crystal things decorating the room. There was a crystal chandelier. And there was space. There was so much space.

"Sit down," the registrar with his white beard told the pair, gesturing at a soft fuzzy sofa. They sat, and he sat in an armchair opposite to them, with a polished coffee table in between. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Our papers are out of date," Kumiko replied, handing him their papers. "Can you get us new ones?"

He calmly looked through the papers.

"Sure," he replied. "I'll mail you your new papers. It will take a week, though. Where do you live?"

"Thank you, sir." Kumiko gave him their address. And then they took their leave.

One week. One week. The new papers would take one week to arrive. Both siblings were perturbed by this. They would not be able to go out during that week, for fear that the soldiers might find them and kill them for not having papers. They would not be able to go to the childcare centre where Alena got her meals. They wouldn't be able to go to Kumiko's job, and earn money for rent. How would they survive?

"What will we do?" Alena asked Kumiko after they got home.

"We'll stay right here. We'll stay right here and we'll rest," he replied.

"At least I'll get to spend time with you."

"Yes. At least."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I'll talk about anything you want to talk about."

And so the two of them talked. They talked though their throats were dry and they talked through the banging, clanging, all-consuming waves of hunger pangs that crashed over them and crashed over them and crashed over them. They were accustomed to hunger, but this was too much for even them to stay strong against. They were overcome with hunger. And the hunger weighed like thousands of stones crushing their souls. But still, they had to bear it. They had to bear it.

When their neighbours got home they told their neighbours what had happened.

"We won't have food for the next week," Alena explained. "Can you help us?"

"Absolutely," Saki responded. "We'll give you what we can."

Kumiko smiled. That was appreciated. That was appreciated immensely.

But it wasn't enough. The neighbours were all poor as well, they were all very poor. They gave what they could give, but what they could give was not much. And so Alena and Kumiko were still far too hungry. And not only were they far too hungry, but their neighbours were far too hungry as well. And it wasn't fair. None of this was anything remotely close to fair. But it was what they had to live with. What they had to make do with.

"I can't take it anymore," Alena whined the next day. "I can't, I can't, I can't I can't."

"I'm so sorry my girl," Kumiko tried to placate. "I'm so sorry. I wish we had more food."

"I hate it. I hate all of it so very much."

"What do you hate?"

"This war. These soldiers. These rules. This hunger. It's all terrible."

"It is. I understand. I agree."

"I can't bear it anymore. I can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing what?"

"I can't keep living life when this is life."

"Do you want a different life?"

"Yes. I want a different life."

Again Kumiko thought about the offer that the Allitian lady had given him. He could save his sister from this life, from this unbearable life. And he could give her something better. But would it be better? Would it truly be better?

"Would you want to leave me to go live your different life?" he asked. Her eyes went wide at this.

"What? No! Without you, what is the point of life?"

"Okay."

"Don't leave me. Don't go away."

"I won't. I promise."

But was it a promise he could keep?

The days bled together, one after the other. Each day was unendurably long, was unendingly long. Each day was an endless rough rope of coarse hunger being pulled through their insides. Each day was desperate and wanting, was longer than the last, was more unendurable than the last. And yet, they had to keep on enduring. They had to endure on.

Hunger was a rough, grating, jagged piece of serrated metal cutting and cutting and cutting deep into the body, deep into the mind, deep into the heart, deep into the soul. Hunger was a superheated electric wire, running from the pit of the belly to the hollow of the chest, through the arms and legs, through the throat and up to the head. Hunger was a thousand thorns all over their insides, twisting and writhing. And hunger was an enormous lead weight on their joints, on their muscles, on their organs, on their bones. Hunger was inescapable. And it was everywhere.

What was worse than the constant pain in their bodies was the constant pain in their souls. The hunger pulled at and squeezed and grated on their souls. The hunger took a cheese grater to their emotions, to their sense of life, to their sense of safety, to their sense of stability. The hunger weighed heavy on them and weighed heavy on them and squeezed the breath from their hearts. It left them screaming inside, left them wailing inside, left them drowning inside and clawing for an escape. And still. Still they had to bear it. Still they had to go on.

They clung to each other. They clung to each other with everything they had. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Socially. They exchanged closeness and they exchanged kindness and they exchanged many many words, spoken with desperation, as if they were the last words they would ever speak. As if they were the most important words they would ever speak.

When the neighbours came home, they all talked together. They talked of their hurt and their hunger and their rage. So, so much rage. Rage against the war. Rage against the soldiers. Rage against the inequality. Rage against the disaster capitalism. Rage against the stupid rules they were all forced to live by and rage against the people that hade made life like this.

They talked of hope too, in little bits and pieces. To be honest, there was not much hope. Not in the midst of this unending war. In the midst of this unending occupation. But there was always hope, in every situation. And they dreamed that they could break out of this situation one day. That their children could break out of this situation one day. Or their children's children or their children's children's children. There would surely be a chance one day.

Eventually the week was over. The week was over and Kumiko was able to go back to work, and Alena was able to go back to the childcare centre. But it had been a long week. Far too long. Far, far too long.

And what was the worst thing was that this wasn't the first week they had had to live like this. No. By no means was it the first. It was fairly common that someone in the building was out of work. Sometimes it was Kumiko, sometimes it wasn't. But they had had to scrape by on weeks or sometimes even months like this a couple of times every year. And each and every time they had just had to bear it. They had just had to get through it. There had been no other option.

But now Kumiko saw that he had another option in front of him. He could give his sister to a family that could take care of her. Of course, that would be worse. That would be so much worse. But this past week, combined with the many, many years they had had to spend living like this, had taken too much from Kumiko. He didn't have the strength to fight anymore. He didn't have the strength to keep his sister with him. The promise of her being fed and clothed was too much, it was too much to turn away from.

He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to lose his sister. He didn't want his sister to lose him. But after that hellish week, after so many hellish weeks, after every week of their lives having been hellish, what could he do? He wanted to say no. He wanted to say no. He wanted so very much to say no. But how could he? How could he say no when these were the circumstances Alena was faced with?

Also, he thought of the fact that hunger wasn't the only thing they were facing. Poverty wasn't the only way to fall into the jaws of death. The brother thought of how close he and his sister had been to getting killed by the soldier. He thought of how close they had been to meeting their end in front of the barrel of a gun. There were so many people killed by soldiers. And they weren't all shot. Many of them didn't even do anything to incur the wrath of the soldiers. But they died anyways. He didn't want that to happen to his sister. And the bombs, too, were a constant threat.

He had no choice. No choice at all really. Let the person you love most in the world starve and die or give her up and send her away, what kind of a choice is that? So he took his sister Alena to the childcare centre and he kissed her forehead. Tenderly, desperately, as if he was trying to pour all the love he had for her into that single kiss. Which of course could not be done. Love is infinite.

"You're coming back, right?" Alena asked worriedly.

"Of course, little bird," Kumiko promised. But Alena was not sure that he was. She was not sure at all.

After Alena had finally been dragged away from the door, dragged away from her brother, and pulled into the dark interior of the sturdy and looming building, Kumiko stepped into the building as well. He knew that his sister was off somewhere doing something, and she wouldn't see him. So he asked for the lady from last week.

"Did you rethink my offer?" she asked him, her pink-painted lips twisted up into a knowing smile. She looked like a snake ready to strike.

"I did," he replied. "And ..." he tried to keep his voice from faltering. "And I'm really grateful to you for having given such a kind and generous offer to my sister. I would like to inform you that I have agreed to hand over her care to whoever you deem the most competent. And I hope that she can find safety in her new life."

"Thank you." The lady's words were too sugar-sweet. They were too poison-laced. But Kumiko smiled and turned away, tears welling up in his eyes.

This was the worst thing he had ever done in his life. And he knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his sister would never forgive him. And he thought that he would deserve her not forgiving him. But still, he could be sure that his sister was getting food, was getting water, was getting safety and security and education. That was something. That was something at the very least. Or at least, that's what he tried and failed to convince himself.

He wanted so very badly to just die. But he thought, if Alena would have to be cursed to continue on living life, then it would only be fair that he should be too. And part of him held onto a faint sliver of hope that Alena would find him one day. He did not know why he believed that. But he couldn't stop himself.

Alena knew that something was wrong. She had known that something was wrong when her brother kneeled down to kiss her. She had known that something was wrong when she was standing there, looking at him. She had known that something was wrong when she was being dragged away from him by a pale, fat volunteer. She knew that something was deeply, deeply twisted. Something was deeply, deeply horrible.

This sense of wrongness, it sat like a black hole in her gut, twisting apart her insides and tearing and pulling at her flesh, her blood, her bones. Until she felt as though she was collapsing into something infinitely heavy, something infinitely dark. There was so much gravity within her, trying to pull her down into the very ground.

But she played with the other children. She played with the other children despite the slimy feeling in her mouth. And she played with the other children despite the heaviness in her core. Because she was a child. And that was what children did. Children played. Even through absolutely broken, crumbled hearts, children played.

The other children also knew that something was wrong. They knew that something was very wrong. And their hearts ached for Alena, their hearts called out to Alena. Children always know when something is wrong. They were as kind to her as they could be. But they were children. They were children and they were poor people in a war zone. That meant that they didn't have power. They didn't have the power to fix the wrongness they were all feeling.

One of the pale Allitian volunteers came up to Alena. He came up to Alena and he asked Alena to follow him. Alena knew that she did not have a choice. She was just a scrawny kid against his well-fed muscles. And so she obeyed, and she went with him, despite everything inside her protesting and pressing her to not follow him.

He took her to a car. She had never been in a car before. She was terrified, terrified about everything that was going on. But despite all that, the seats were soft and the car was cool and comfortable. That didn't stop her from being supersaturated with fear though. It didn't stop the black hole in her gut from consuming her.

She eventually was taken to a dusty makeshift military base. And she was lead to an airplane. She had seen airplanes before, roaring as they cut through the skies, dropping bombs on the land. This airplane was both very much like and nothing like those airplanes. She had seen airplanes that didn't drop bombs as well, and those airplanes were more like this one. But still, seeing it up close was both impressive and horrible.

She climbed the staircase leading to the door of the plane. It was a rather steep, daunting staircase.

"Why are we getting on the plane?" she asked in a quiet and confused voice.

"We're just going on a little trip," the Allitian man stated, "we'll come right back when we're done."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Of course."

She didn't think he was telling the truth, but she didn't have the power to argue back with him. So she made her heavy, leaden feet climb up the stairs and into the plane. Though she wished beyond anything that she was back home where she belonged.

Inside the plane, it was spacious. It was spacious and it was well-lit with a number of purple and blue coloured lights. The plane was filled with soldiers who were sitting in many seats. But there was a space in the back of the long, hollow tube where there were no seats, and a few children were playing there. They were all Allitian, but still, children were children, and so Alena went to play with them.

This plane was by far the richest thing she had ever seen. It was so clean and polished and shining. And it was so large. She admired its beauty, she honestly did. But still she wished beyond wish that she wasn't here, that she was at her humble, tiny, shabby home instead, with her brother and her neighbours and everyone who she already missed beyond comprehension.

As the plane thundered through the sky, Alena felt more and more suffocated, more and more panicked, more and more trapped. She felt as though she was in a locked room with no air, as though the walls were closing in around her, as if her whole body was slowly being put under more and more and more pressure.

"Can I please go back?" she asked one of the soldiers.

"Not yet. Don't worry. We'll land soon." His words sounded as if they were trying to be sympathetic words, they were trying to be kind words, but still they were words devoid of sympathy and kindness anyways. They were words that were cold, and cutting, and hollow. Alena wanted to scream. She wanted so very badly to scream. But she was afraid of what would happen if she did.

When they finally landed, they were not in the dusty makeshift military base they had left. Instead, they were in a strange new world. Everything was so clean. Everything was so shining. Everything was so straight and square and most importantly everything was so big. It was pretty. Definitely, it was pretty. But it was wrong, all wrong, so very wrong.

This time Alena did scream. She screamed and she ran back towards the plane and she tried to get back on. But the soldiers caught her and held her down and stopped her from getting on. She kicked and screamed and scratched and bit and flailed her arms and fought as hard as she could. But it was no use. There were just so so many of them and they were just so big. Still, she fought with all the energy she had, until all her energy left her and she was exhausted and too tired to fight back.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

A pale woman came up to her and crouched down beside her. She looked as if she was trying to look caring, trying to look kind. But in her eyes there was the same cold hard hollowness that there was in all the eyes and the voices of the Allitian people.

"We're in Allitia. This is a nice place. A safe place. A free place. We're going to find a nice family to adopt you and take care of you, and you will have a good, safe life."

This was by far the most devastating thing that Alena had heard in years. The only thing that could come close to this news was the news that her parents had died, many many years ago. It felt as though she had been shot through the heart. It felt as though everything inside her, everything in her soul, had become dark and dead and rotten all at once. She felt trapped, she felt trapped, she felt more trapped than she had ever felt in her life. She felt devastated, desecrated, and entirely destroyed. But she didn't have the energy to fight anymore. She didn't have the energy to fight back.

"I want to go home," she pleaded with everything that she had, her voice sounding sad and lost and desperate. Her voice sounding oh so small.

"This is your new home now," the woman replied, voice matter-of-fact. But this was not true. This strange land so far removed from everyone she loved was not her home. It would never be her home. Never ever. She was a prisoner here, and she was a ghost walking through the pale shadow of life.

"I want to go home," she repeated. "Please."

But they did not listen to her. They did not listen to her and they packed her into another car and they drove off, not at all caring how she felt.

This car went through many strange streets. Streets that Alena did not understand at all. Streets that were wide, so very incredibly wide. Streets that had so many incredibly fast cars and even trucks driving through them. The cars were so whole, so clean, so shiny. And there was grass lining the roads. Green grass and many, many buildings. The buildings were so very straight, so very shiny, so very perfect and big. There were no broken windows. No broken houses. No rubble anywhere. It was so strange. She admired it, but more than anything she wanted to go home.

They turned in to a street filled with houses. And the houses were all so big, were all so immaculate, were all so clean and pretty. They all had pretty yards full of grass and flowers and trees. There were no soldiers anywhere. There were barely any people anywhere. And all the people that there were were perfectly well-fed and whole.

They turned in to a large building. And there she was shown to a large, clean room with a soft, cushioney bed. She went immediately to the bed and she wrapped herself in blankets. The blankets offered a tiny bit of security, a tiny bit of comfort. But they didn't offer even a fraction of the comfort that her brother offered, that her people offered. They didn't offer even a fraction of the comfort that her family offered.

She lay in bed and she missed her family. She missed her family with all that she had. And she felt so heavy, so tired, so weighed down by their absence. She felt lost, absolutely lost. And she felt like everything all around her was poison, was blood. She felt as though she was breathing poisoned blood instead of air. And she felt as though she would never taste the sweet freshness of air again. There was nothing left of her. For she was nothing without her family.

Many families came to see her. Strange, clean families with pretty, elegant clothes. The clothes were so elegant and the shoes were so new and the eyes were so completely, absolutely hollow. But perhaps they simply reflected the hollowness she felt in her soul. Many families tried to talk to her. They tried to see if she would be a good match for their family or not. But Alena did not talk to them. She was holding on to the hope that if she didn't get adopted by a family, then she would be sent home.

But get adopted she did. A family found her and they liked her. She did not know why they liked her. She did not like them back. And she tried to make it apparent that she had no interest in being adopted by them. But still, they insisted on taking her home with them.

"She's so sweet," the mother cooed.

"Yes, she is," the father agreed.

And just like that the papers were signed and she was dragged out of the building and into yet another car. And just like that her fate was sealed.

The house that the family lived in was nicer than any house she had ever imagined. It was big. It was clean. It was ornately decorated. But it wasn't home. It wasn't home and it wasn't even a prison. It was a hell, a place of torture. And she felt as if she was being sliced into with knives of ice every second that she was in there. It felt as if her soul was being frozen in ice and tied down with iron.

The family tried to be nice to her. But they had that same hollow coldness that everyone from this strange country always had. They never seemed to see her, to truly see her. They never seemed to see her sadness, her misery, her aching inside. They never seemed to see her truth or the constant horrors she faced in her every waking moment. And they never seemed to care, either. They never seemed to care that she was broken inside, that she wasn't the perfect, grateful little girl who they rescued from horror.

There was a mother. And she was not anything at all like Alena's mother who had died. There was a father. And he was nothing like Alena's father either. There were two children, a boy and a girl, both older than her. And they were nothing like her brother. They were so carefree and careless and thoughtless. They did not understand that any emotions beside positive ones actually existed. And they did not understand why Alena was so wistful and withdrawn. This family was a family. They loved each other. But they were not her family. And they didn't love her.

It sank deep into her like a thousand jagged pieces of broken glass, the fact that the people in the house were a family, one that she wasn't part of. They loved each other. And they cared about each other. But they did not care about her. Not truly. Not while they kept her there, away from her brother and her people, and that cut into her so very deeply. It made her feel small, faded, ghost-like. She felt as though she was banished from life, banished from personhood, and trapped behind a thick glass separating her from the world. And everyone else around her was part of life, and part of each other. She hated it. It was unfair. It was so deeply, incredibly, intrinsically and fundamentally unfair. And it absolutely suffocated her.

She wanted, more than anything, to be away from this horrible family that stole her personhood from her in the same breath that they claimed to save her. She wanted, more than anything, to be back with her people, where she belonged. Her loneliness, her homesickness, her grief, her alienation, it all sank down through all parts of her, poisoned and freezing and oh so deeply wrong. Her soul was being boiled in crude, thick, poisoned oil. Her soul was having the breath squeezed out of it. Every single part of her felt ragged.

She had always had a baseline desire to die. It had haunted her for her entire life. And it had been especially strong, especially destructive and overwhelming when her parents had died. When they had died, her heart was screaming at herself to end it. To stop this horrible, aching existence of hers. Her grief had been devastating. And it had, after many many years, not diminished even a bit. She had always had to live with the heavy weight of her parents' deaths. A weight that had never gotten lighter.

But now, now that she was all alone, without any family, the weight of grief was far more crushing that she could have ever even imagined it possible to be. There was no part of her that wanted to continue living. To continue living with this family she wasn't truly a part of. Without any of the people who made her who she was. She was ready to just give up.

Meanwhile, Kumiko wanted to kill himself too. He thought that he had betrayed his sister.

He thought that he had betrayed her in the worst way imaginable. In a way he did, but it was truly not his fault. But he hated himself. He hated himself so very much, in the very base of his heart and then out of his gut and in every other part that existed in him. He thought about Alena every single second of his existence, no matter what he was doing. He thought that her pain must be overwhelming. And he was right. His own pain was overwhelming too. Alena's absence weighed heavy on him, colouring everything he experienced with desolation. Her absence clawed and scratched at him. But there was nothing he could do. The deed was done.

One day Alena was lying in her soft bed, trying to melt into it and get as many of the meagre, faded threads of comfort that it offered. There, she made up her mind to finally go end herself. And so she stepped out of her bed, as softly as a feather, and she snuck her way to the bathroom, under cover of night, while all the others were sleeping. She meant to pick up a razor and slit her wrists. She felt like she was finally embracing the arms of freedoms.

When she got to the bathroom, she softly closed the door behind her. And she turned on the light so she could dig through the drawers.

"My child," a voice called out to her, soft and gentle, and she turned her head sharply towards its direction.

There, kneeling down so that they were eye-level to her, was a person dressed in clouds. They had a softness in their eyes. A deep, aching kindness. And a deep, aching sadness. A deep, aching sadness that perfectly reflected her own.

"Who are you?" the young girl asked.

"I think you already know who I am."

"But ... Alemi? Why are you here?"

"I can't do much for you, child. My powers in this mortal world are limited. I wish I could do more. Especially for you, my dear, sweet child. But I can do this."

The room seemed to be bathed in a strange white glow. And when the little sister looked at herself in the mirror, she saw that she had earth-brown, feathery wings that matched the colour of her eyes. She reached back to feel them. And the feathers were whole and strong. The place where the wings connected to her back was thick and strong. And she saw in the mirror that the wings were large and thick and formidable.

"These will carry you where you need to go. Trust in them, for they can keep flying indefinitely, and they will fly in whatever direction you bid them to go. And they will take you to the ground whenever you bid them to."

"But how will I know the way back home?" Aleni asked.

"I will give you the knowledge needed to find your way." The God held their hand to Alena's forehead. And all at once, the calm, flowing knowledge of how to get home washed over her, like clear flowing water, like a calm breeze of air.

"Thank you, Alemi."

"No need, Alena. Simply follow the knowledge and you will get back to your home, to where you belong."

"I will, parent."

Alemi then kissed the little girl on the forehead. And then the God disappeared.

Alena quietly padded to her room and got a large shoulder bag from her closet, which she slung over her shoulders with great care, making sure to place the strap between her two wings so that they would not encumber her flight. She stepped carefully into the kitchen, in the barely-there light of the night. She had a large meal easily worth three meals, scarfing down the food as fast as she could. She went into the large pantry and filled her bag with food of all types, food that would survive the long journey back home. She also filled up all the water bottles in the house. When she had had about four days worth of food and water she went back.

The little sister softly snuck back to her room, taking great care not to wake any of the family that inhabited the grand house. She softly closed the door behind her and she opened the window. The night was calm and clear and cool. The darkness coated everything in an air of soothing, an air of promise. And it was clear to her, what she must do next. What she could do next.

She stood up on the windowsill, in front of the open window. And she flapped her great, powerful wings. She took off without making a single sound. And she left that house behind her, the window still open.

She soared above the darkened neighbourhood. And from up so high, the huge houses all looked so very small. They looked small and unassuming and altogether powerless. Nothing like the high, hulking monoliths of perfection that they looked like on the ground. She soared higher and higher, until she was no longer able to be seen from the ground. And she began her long journey.

There in the night air, she felt so incredibly free. She felt as though she was finally herself again. She felt as though she could breathe. The cold of the night washed over her, bathing her in cool, clear rejuvenation. And the air all around her, flowing over her skin and stroking through her hair, it was healing her soul and filling her with a soft yet strong and constant hope.

She felt at one with the night. And she felt at one with the sky. The night, the sky, the air, they were all a part of her. They all flowed into her and she flowed into them right back. They gave her a constant embrace of strength, and helped her heart to have a constant embrace of strength within it. She felt as though she was in the arms of Alemi, of her parents, or her brother. She felt as though she was in the arms of the whole world.

The shoulder bag carried by the strap on her back quickly got heavy. It got heavy and it burned and it was such torture. But still, she knew that she had to keep carrying it, because it would provide her with the nourishment that she would need for her journey. She knew she had to keep going. Because she was going home. The night and the air and the sky gave her strength to keep going onwards. And the knowledge that she was going home have her strength. It gave her so much strength. And, through the aching and burning in her back, she could go on.

Her wings beat automatically, of their own accord. They both were hers and were not hers at the same time. They were given to her as a gift from the God. And they still belonged, in a sense, to said God. To said God who was helping her to get home. Her wings beat fast and strong, and carried her forwards and forwards through the air. They did not get tired no matter how long or how fast they beat. And she supposed that that was due to their magical origin. She was brightly thankful for them, for the help they provided.

The sister knew that she must go east. She knew that she must go east and she knew in which direction east was. East was towards the horizon where the sun lifted itself out of the ground and into the sky each day. She followed that horizon, and she knew that with each beat of her wings, she was getting closer and closer to her home. So she went east, and she went with knowledge, with wisdom, and with purpose. A sense of purpose that was so strong that it shone hot and burning through everything that she thought, felt, and experienced.

This was not to say that she was not sorrowful. She was an orphan, she had experienced war her whole life, and she had been ripped away from what was left of her family. Of course she was sorrowful. Of course she was sorrowful and anguished. Of course the pain hurt too much and there were parts of herself still screaming at her to give up on life. Of course everything hurt, going on hurt. Her past haunted her, her present haunted her, and her future haunted her. But amidst all the sadness, there was still strength, there was still power, there was still glory. There was love and there was joy and there was soothing darkness and energetic brightness. She had to see her brother, and everyone else, again.

She flew east until the night faded and the morning rose. The sunrise was beautiful, and it coated the whole sky with pinks and purples. The clouds were supersaturated with colour. It felt like Hope. It felt like Hope being shot straight through every part of her. And it felt like love. The world loved her, the sky loved her, the sunrise loved her. They could not do much to help her, but they still loved her all the same.

She saw, once the sky was blue again, that she was flying over a forest. There was so much dark green below her. And so she landed, because she was sure she would not be found, between two evergreen trees on the soft forest floor. She took her shoulder bag off and ate some of her food, sitting in the tranquility and the crowdedness of the forest.

The forest was beautiful. It was beyond beautiful. The forest floor was soft with moss and leaves and pine needles. There were trees of all types all around, thickly crowding the landscape with their strength and their tallness and their verdant leaves. There was a stream nearby which she could drink from. Birds sang in the trees and a squirrel scurried through some branches. She looked around and she saw a great brown bear staring at her with knowledge in her eyes.

The forest was alive. All parts of it flowed and burned and shone and flowed with life energy, with love energy, with spiritual energy. The forest gave her strength, gave her love, and gave her courage. It rooted for her on her journey homeward. And it told her that it was cheering for her, it was cheering for her, it was cheering for her to succeed. The forest was holding her like a parent, and the forest was giving her all of its kindness, was sharing its life force and its energy with her. Every tree, every shrub, every plant. Every animal big and small. The earth and the sky and the water. It was all rooting for her and giving her encouragement.

After finishing her food, she bid goodbye to the forest. She thanked the forest for its cover, its secrecy, its connection, and all its help. And she took off to the sky once again, continuing on her journey.

This time she fell asleep in her flight, her wings still beating as her body slumped over, not holding itself up anymore. When she awoke, she felt sore but well-rested. It had become night time. She knew she needed to eat again, but she saw no wilderness below her for her to land in. And so she decided to take a risk and she landed on the top of a large skyscraper. There she ate her meal, as quickly as she could. Thankfully, the night had provided cover for her. Those who did see her figure descend upon the building could not figure out what she was. And when she once again rose to the sky, no-one could figure out what she was.

When it was morning, she found another forest to hide in. And during the night she found more tall buildings. When the daylight came again, instead of a forest she found rolling fields to have her dinner in.

These fields were wide, they were filled with all sorts of grasses and wildflowers and shrubs. Everything around her was burning green, burning gold, and burning all colours in between green and gold. The wildflowers shone in potent and powerful colours, dotting all throughout the landscape. And the shrubs shone in the sun. The wind blew through the landscape, making everything wave backwards and forwards as if they were waves in the ocean. There was a river snaking through the landscape. And the sky stretched out a brilliant blue on all sides. There were prairie chickens and ferrets and prairie dogs, and a heard of buffalo in the distance, all grazing together.

This landscape too filled her with life. If filled her with life and encouragement and love. Everywhere she turned was life. And everywhere she turned, life flowed into her heart and soul. The prairie loved her. It loved her beyond measure. And it burned for her to be successful in her journey. And she in turn burned back. She was connected to all of the life, and to the earth and the sky and the sun and the water. She was connected to all of it, and she was one with all of it. She might have been the only human there, but she was not alone. She was not alone at all.

The next morning, after another night of flying and stopping, she came upon a desert. At seeing the desert, her heart soared with joy. It was still weighed down with lead tones of sorrow, but it soared with joy anyways. Because coming upon a desert meant that she was getting nearer to her home.

She landed, and took in the magnificence of the desert all around her. There were cacti dotting the lands, tall and green and strong. The sun burned just as she remembered it burning in her home. And everything around her was burning bright with spirit and energy and glory. The dry earth was burning, the rolling hills were burning, the great and strong rocks were burning. There were badgers and foxes and a heard of wild camels. Out in the distance she could see the green of an oasis.

The desert felt like home. It felt like home. And it called her to keep going homewards, to keep going home until she was all the way home and back with the people who she belonged with. She drank her water thirsting and she listened to the voice of the desert. She listened to its voice, a voice like a parent calling to a child, and she wrapped her heart in the desert's spiritual embrace. She had not ever seen the desert before, despite living so close to it. She had not ever seen it before because it had been on the other side of the soldiers' military encampments. And trying to cross a military encampment was suicide. But now she was in the wilderness that was meant to be her's all along. And it felt rebellious. And it felt good.

She thanked the desert and she once again took off to the sky. She realized now that the military bases were close by, the war was close by. And that meant that all the many airplanes of the different sides of the war were close by as well. So she flew higher and higher into the sky, until the air was frigid and cold, and the airplanes could not see her due to how high up she was. The air was thinner here, but if she breathed rapidly she could still get all the oxygen she needed. She wondered why she was not feeling dizzy due to the lack of oxygen, and she chalked it up to the work of Alemi. She fell asleep and woke up again in the night.

She followed the knowledge that the God had given her and she turned and flew towards the direction of the little apartment she shared with her brother, and the small building that housed it. When she had gotten to exactly the right place, she hovered high up in the air. She could still hear the faint rumbling of airplanes far below her. She hoped that they were not bombing her house. Fear sparked in her chest, making her heart jump to her throat.

But as the night grew darker, all the sounds of the airplanes faded away. She stopped beating her wings, dropping down like a falcon. And once she was near the ground, she unfurled her wings all at once and they caught the air and stopped her fall. She softly landed herself on the ground, in front of the building she called her own. Her wings vanished, and she knew this from the lightness on her back. She knew then, that her journey was over.

She quickly went in through the door to the building, and stopped in front of the door to her apartment. She knocked frantically, heart beating lightning-fast with excitement. This was the moment.

"Who is it?" her brother called sleepily.

"Open up," she replied.

The door quickly opened and Kumiko's eyes went wide with ecstaticness. He couldn't believe what he saw. He couldn't believe it, but he oh so deeply wanted to. Alena's eyes sparked with joy, her heart burned with joy upon seeing her brother, despite the inky black sludge that was still all over her heart. She felt so much exuberance. She was home. She was finally home! And her brother felt the same exhuberance right back.

"I missed you so much!" Alena declared, tears of joy and heartbreak falling from her eyes.

"I missed you too," Kumiko replied, crying as well. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay. We're together now." Kumiko could not believe that his sister had forgiven him, but all Alena could think about was the fact that they were together now.

The two siblings melted together in a desperate and desperately tender hug.

"The others will be so happy to see you again tomorrow," Kumiko exclaimed softly.

"I know," Alena replied.

-Lacitia-

There are girls all around me, in their heavy, polished wooden desks. Many of the girls are paying attention, many of them are not. Some are fastidiously taking notes, some are doodling, and some are discreetly whispering to the other girls around them. Each girl wears a crisp blue and white uniform, not quite the colour of the sky and not quite the colour of the clouds. The uniform is pretty, but there are so many other clothes that are pretty. It gets rather repetitive wearing the same thing each day.

I am in class, but I'm not paying attention to what's being said. I can always go back and read the textbook anyways. I have better things to do right now. Right now I am talking to my friend Navalia, who has her long black hair in two long plaits that have their ends pinned to the top of her head. There is a bright blue ribbon in her hair, softly iridescent, matching the colour of her uniform. Other girls have different ribbons in their hair, but Navalia likes matching.

"Mrs. Ansami is so boring," Navalia whispers to me, so quiet that the teachers cannot hear us, and neither could anyone spying for them.

"I know," I reply, "this is the worst class."

"Well at least the other classes are better."

"You're right. They are better. I don't know what's wrong with her. She's so monotone."

"Well, at least we have some time to just talk."

"Yes, it's a chance to cool down after everything that school puts us through."

"So, did you get the new skirt you wanted?"

"Yes, it looks lovely on me."

"Burnt orange is your colour."

"It really is. I'll let you borrow it if you want, though."

"You're so sweet."

"Aww, thanks. You are too."

"I wish we could wear our miniskirts to school."

"Oh, I wish so too. The girls would be so impressed by the clothes I have."

"They would. It would be so much more fun if we could dress how we wanted."

"Oh, so true."

We keep on talking until the ringing school bell dismisses us to different classes.

———

-Alissiya-

The house is empty right now. I'm ostensibly supposed to be guarding the house against thieves, or burglars, or any of the like. But how I can protect the house when I'm a twelve year old girl, I'm not quite certain. There are locks on the door anyways. Locks that prevent any intruders from coming in unnoticed. Why I'm here, I'm not entirely certain. But in this time, when the adults are at work and the other teenaged girl is at school, in this time I finally have some time to myself.

I finally have time to take down the brave face that I've been putting on. I'm allowed to sit on the couch, with no-one to see me. And I'm allowed to mourn and mourn and mourn my heart out until the time when the doors are opened and the family comes into the house, a house that is ultimately theirs, in the same way that I am ultimately theirs as well.

I think about my mother. It's been months since I saw her last. Months since I've been in her embrace. The way that I miss her, it's unspeakable. The grief settles its way deep into my heart, seeping through all parts of me, deep down into my very core. I miss her. I miss her, I miss her, I miss her so very much. And I don't want this life, not if it means being away from her. And it does. It does mean being away from her.

I am a prisoner, trapped by my hunger, trapped by my mortality, trapped by my need. But my immortal soul needs so much more than what my body needs. My immortal soul needs my family. My real family, not the masquerade of a family that I am forced to live my life with. I need my real family. And I cannot even grieve for them, not when my false family are here in this too-bright, too-large, too-cluttered house that is eerily shiny.

I lay down and I let myself feel my emotions. And it's a whirlwind storm that drowns me. But it's also an oasis in the desert. I need to allow myself to feel openly, because otherwise the secret girl inside myself is banging and clawing at the door, screaming to be let out, until her hands and throat are bloody.

Time passes by crawlingly slow, as does every second that I am in this house, or outside somewhere in the custody of the house's owners. But still, it feels like no time at all has passed when I am faced with the sound of the doorbell ringing.

"Coming," I call out. I unlock the door, the wooden door on the inside. I unlock the white gridded gate on the porch. And I welcome in Lacitia, who has her bright purple school bag on her back.

"Hi, Alissiya," she chirps brightly. She's two years older than me but she acts younger.

"Hi, Lacitia. How are you today?" I keep my voice bright and chipper.

"I'm fine. Just tired out from school."

I wish I could go to school.

———

-Lacitia-

I am at the dinner table, a finely-carved, gleaming wooden table. I am with my family, and with Alissiya, and we are just casually talking. My mother is wearing dark eyeliner and coral lipstick. My father has on a plain white truck-shirt that goes well with his dark hair. Alissiya is wearing a red dress. Everyone is happy. We're all together, and everyone is happy.

"What should we wear to Hannah's wedding?" my mother asks.

"I really like the blue dress we saw in the marketplace," Alissiya starts. "The dress with the pearls on it."

"Oh yes, that's beautiful," I agree. "Is that what you're going to be wearing?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I'll see if mom and dad have the funds for it. What are you going to be wearing?"

"I think I want to wear the red dress with the sequins that we saw a week ago."

"Oh, yes," my mom agrees, "that would be so beautiful. You would look so beautiful in that."

"I would, wouldn't I?"

"You look so beautiful no matter what you wear," my dad tells me. "Both of my girls do." He smiles.

"I just wish I could wear whatever I wanted to school," I fume ruefully.

"I don't understand that rule," Alissiya admits. "Why shouldn't you girls be allowed to wear pretty clothes? It doesn't detract from your education at all. In fact, it might create a more fun learning environment."

"I agree," my mother states. "I wrote to the authorities of the school. But their answer was predictable. The school uniform apparently instills a sense of responsibility and community within the student populace."

"All it installs is resentment," I riposte.

"Well," my dad begins, "you could do an act of civil disobedience. Force them to rethink their policy."

"I could." A smile forms on my face as an idea forms in my mind.

———

-Alissiya-

"Mom," I ask my fake mother, my eyes bright and shining, hiding all the chaos in their deep, dark depths. "Why can't I go to school?"

"What do you mean, Alissiya?" She's looking at me as if she did not expect at all for these words to come out of my mouth. And honestly, I suppose that she didn't. She never expects anything less than absolute gratitude from me. I know that I walk on very dangerous ground.

"You send Lacitia to school," I try to explain. "And that's very good. Good for her. But what is the reason that you don't do the same for me? I'm not, I'm not asking to go to school. I'm just wondering what the reason is?" Fear thuds in my chest. But as always, I keep it hidden deep within me. Her face darkens, her black-framed eyes seeming much colder.

"Why are you asking me this?" Her words carry the subtlest bit of threat, unknown, probably, even to her.

"I'm just wondering why. I mean, it's not that I want to go to school. But won't it make it easier for me to relate to and understand Lacitia?"

"Well, we just don't have the money to send you to school," she explains. "We're middle class and you know we're middle class. We don't have the budget to send you to school. You already know that we spend a lot on you as it is."

"Oh, I understand," I lie. So they have the money for bright, shimmery, lustrous, expensive dresses in chic cuts and intricate designs. But they don't have the money to send me to school. I get it. A middle class lifestyle is worth more than the education of a false daughter from the slums. I get it.

"Also," the lady keeps on talking, "it wouldn't be worth it putting you in school. You're smart, I'm not going to lie, you are smart. But your intelligence isn't quite the sort of intelligence they look for in the school system. You wouldn't do well there."

"Oh, okay. That's perfectly understandable. Thank you for the explanation, mother." I bite down all the rage that is welling inside of me.

"Besides," the lady tells me, "school isn't any fun anyways." There is a hard edge to her words. I'm going to have to win back her approval. Be the good daughter she wants me to be.

———

-Lacitia-

"We should do a protest, make them see us for who we are." I'm talking to the children gathered all around me. My friends are here. But even people who aren't my friends are here. Dozens of people from all the grades are here. And they're all listening to what I say.

"Yeah," a girl with a striped headband agrees, "we should totally rise up. We should make them see that they can't control us, they can't control what we wear."

The girls all around us cheer.

"So what should we wear?" my friend Alaia asks.

"Well" I begin, "we might as well go all out. We might as well wear the most beautiful, expensive things we have."

"Oh, that will be so great!" a girl with red highlights in her hair declares, "it will be like a party!"

"So it will," another girl with dangly earrings agrees. "It will be both fun and rebellious at the same time. Which is a glorious mix."

"So, should we change in the school washrooms, or should we come to school in our party clothes?" my friend Maria asks.

"Good question."

We continue to talk about our rebellion, all standing in the gazebo of the school park, next to the playground. We're too old to be playing on the playground, but a lot of the younger kids like it. There are not many of us coalescing and colluding here, in the shade, where the recess supervisors cannot hear us. But there are enough of us. Enough that we pose a threat to the status quo. This is beautiful.

———

-Alissiya-

"What did you learn today?" I ask my not-sister. She is smiling, as she so often is. There is hatred in her eyes, hidden deep. As there always is. Unknown to her.

"Oh, just, boring stuff. We did draw something cool in art today, though."

"That's nice, what did you draw?"

"We had to make mandalas, and we could draw all sorts of patterns, as long as they had radial symmetry."

"That's interesting. What's radial symmetry?"

"Oh, don't you know?"

"Can you explain?"

"It's when the same pattern repeats in each part of a circle, meaning, around the centre."

"That makes sense." I try to imagine what she could mean.

———

-Lacitia-

Today is finally, finally the day. The day when we are going to put everything into motion. The day when we are going to have our voices and our desires be heard. I am jittering with excitement on the inside, and restless in the outside. Alissiya is helping me with my makeup, which is a godsend, because my makeup needs to be absolutely perfect today, it needs to match my coral minidress with the frills and the shining tassels.

"Thanks, Alissiya," I tell her, spraying my fastidiously curled hair, dyed at the tips to match my dress. I take my backpack, slip on some high heels, and I make my way to the school, which is a short bus ride away from my house.

"Where are you going, pretty young lady?" an older woman on the bus asks me.

"Just to a protest," I answer her. "We're fighting for our rights to wear what we want at our schools."

"Good girl," she replies, smiling with her red lips. "May the gods aid in your journey."

The bus stops and I walk out, and in no time I am at the gates to my large school, which shines in the sunlight. About one in five of the girls are dressed like me, are dressed lavishly in colours and cuts and patterns of all different sorts. They all look glamorous. We all look glamorous. We all scan the crowd of incoming children, and smile upon seeing each other.

There are no teachers at the gates of the building, nor are there any in the halls. But in the first class I go to, the teacher looks over the crowd of students in front of her, and she immediately calls the principal

"What do you girls think you're doing?" she asks. She doesn't sound mad, and the usual warmth of her voice is still there. But still, there is something annoyed to it. Which makes her a hypocrite to be honest, standing there with her blue skirt and cream blouse that is not quite up to standard for the teachers' uniform.

"We're standing up for ourselves," one girl replies.

———

-Alissiya-

She left her uniform at home. She honestly left her school uniform at home. And, everyone is gone from the house. No-one is here to see what I do, to see where I go. This is a golden opportunity, an opportunity which I cannot afford to miss out on. This is something that I've wanted all my life. It's something that I've never known that I could have.

Yet it is something that is deeply dangerous. It is something that I know is deeply dangerous, something that I know that I should not do. The rational, reasonable part of my mind is screaming at me to stop, it's screaming at me to not carry out my plan, but I am just not thinking rationally right now. I'll never have a chance like this again.

So I slip on the uniform, which is a little large on me considering that Lacitia is a couple of years older than me, and I board the bus.

My heart is thudding the entire ride to school. I feel like I'm going to vomit. It is simultaneously the best and worst sensation that I have ever felt in my lifetime, except for the times when I get to be with my mother. I'm not thinking straight, I know I'm not thinking straight at all, but I don't care. I don't give myself time to examine all the reasons this is dangerous. I don't give myself the opportunity to come to my senses.

At the school, I am able to slip in unnoticed, and I am able to melt into the crowd of students, all dressed like me, dressed in blue and white. I have to pretend that I'm supposed to be here. I have to pretend that I belong here, with all these middle class children from middle class families living their middle class lives. I have to pretend, and I have to make it believable.

That should be easy. I've been pretending all my life.

And it is easy enough. I go with the students that look my age, and follow them into one of the classes.

"And who might you be?" the teacher with her crisp blue skirt and inquisitive blue eyes asks.

"My name is Avilia," I lie, "it's my first day here, after moving to this city."

"Strange. The school didn't notify me of any new students."

"That is strange indeed." I have to think fast. "Maybe they just forgot. I'll tell my parents to contact the school."

"Okay," the teacher acquiesces. "Go take a seat."

The class is about history, and it is one of the most interesting things I have ever heard in my life. We talk about the thought processes and the values of people in the late Middle Ages, and about all the social developments that were going on at the time. We talk about how the power structures of society affected the way people viewed themselves and society, and we talked about how technological inventions lead to new ways of seeing the world. It's absolutely entrancing.

———

-Lacitia-

I am in the assembly room, along with all my fellow protestors. We're all so pretty. But we're also all getting a talking to. Well, I knew that this would happen.

"What you girls are doing is commendable," Mrs. Valzim, the principal, is telling us. "It is exactly the type of citizenship we long to foster in this school. But the problem is, you have to understand that the rules that are put in place are put in place for a reason. In this school we are breeding an atmosphere of diligence and professionalism, and the uniforms are a part of that..." I stop listening to her as she drones on, opting instead to post to my Connectio account some selfies of myself in this pretty outfit, bravely standing up to those who seek to oppress me.

———

-Alissiya-

"Hello. I'd like to talk to a miss Avilia." There is a woman in a crisp white blouse entering the door to the class, just as we are about to leave. Her hard eyes land on me. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

"That's me." I try to keep my voice even as I follow her out the door. It's not like I could run right now, they'd just trap me. And, if I try to resist, that will make me look all the more suspicious.

She leads me down the halls, not saying anything as her polished shoes hit the hard school floor. My heart is racing. And, the rational part of my mind, which I had been suppressing until now, is telling me that I should have listened to it. I knew that this would happen. The part of me that I so thoughtlessly suppressed knew that this would happen. But still, I was blind and foolish and thoughtless. Why was I so impulsive? This is all literally my fault.

She stops at a private office, and I can see that there are two police officers there, guns and handcuffs glinting on their belts. I act surprised, I act confused.

"Did you think wouldn't catch on?" the lady asks.

"Catch on to what?" I ask in fake earnestness.

"We know you didn't pay to be here. We don't know who you are or where you came from, but stealing an education is a very heavy offence."

"But I didn't steal anything. Maybe my parents forgot to sign me up."

"We keep fastidious records. And don't think we haven't noticed how that uniform is a little too big on you. Those aren't really your clothes, are they?"

The police officers move to surround me. I do not resist as they wrench my arms behind my back and clamp cold metal handcuffs around my wrists.

Willow has her head down, concentrating minutely on sanding the piece of wood in her hands. Devon is doing the same. Concentrating hard, but he can't help the sensation of suffocation that has come over him. He needs a single moment to breathe. So he looks over at Willow for a moment. That moment is enough to earn a sharp reprimand from Mrs. Ward, who brings her stick down hard on Devon'd palm.

"Devorah!" she yells harshly. "Get back to work!" Devon cries out in pain. But what hurts more than the physical pain is hearing himself be referred to by that accursed name. He hates that name. He hates being thought of as a girl. Every moment of it stings him and wrenches him. But he doesn't tell Mrs. Ward not to call him that. Of course he doesn't. Of course he can't. Not when he has seen Millie get whipped to death. Not when he knows the risks.

Willow startles a little bit when she hears Devon's birth name being yelled. She hopes her best friend is okay. She knows that if he gets whipped, she will try to defend him. Never mind that they would both end up being whipped. But thankfully, nothing dangerous comes from the situation. So she goes back to her work.

The work is grating. It is absolutely grating. Willow and Devon both think that the wood that they are sanding is luckier than them. Because while the wood's body is being sanded away, their minds are being sanded away, are being scraped and grated until there is nothing but bloody mesh left. And they hate it. They absolutely hate it. But they cannot even seriously consider stopping. To stop is to get their food rations cut.

They are sanding down the rough bodies of wooden dolls. These dolls are for children whose families can afford them. They are for children who have families. Children who have money. Children who have loving parents who will give them whatever they want. Willow and Devon are not those kinds of children.

They are orphans. And they are stuck here, in this orphanage, where they have to support the orphanage by doing labour each day. There are many jobs to do. Many ways to support the orphanage. The orphanage sells dolls, and Willow and Devon are tasked with sanding the carved pieces, along with some of the other children. There are children who carve, children who paint, children who make many, many doll clothes, children who glue on the hair, the list goes on.

They never get to play with any of the finished dolls themselves. They never get to play with the dolls that have pretty, painted faces, and bright clothes made of fine fabric, and woolen hair. They never get to play with the finished dolls, but they do get to see them, up on the shelves of the store, when they are occasionally brought out to meet patrons of the orphanage. Seeing such pretty toys make their hearts wrench with twisting misery. It doesn't seem fair to them that other kids have such nice toys while they have to play with the ugly and deformed dolls that are half-finished mistakes.

The shop brings a hefty profit for the orphanage. But it is a profit that the orphans never see. The orphanage is crowded and run-down. Their clothes are threadbare. But they do see that the men and women who work at the orphanage can afford delicious and intricate meals made out of fine ingredients. They can afford fine clothes made of expensive fabrics.

But the children are not allowed to complain. They have to go to work each and every day. So that's what they do.

Willow and Devon have to scrape their minds raw in order to walk along the tightrope of perfect focus that their jobs require. They have to go fast, go fast, go so very fast. They have to be perfectly efficient. They have to sand as many dolls as they can in as little time as they can. And they are always having to. And their minds are a panicked, frantic rush always. And their hands work at inhuman speeds.

Willow often wonders whether they are human or not. She doesn't think they are. Humans are not meant for such cruelty. Humans are not meant for such hopelessness. Especially not human children, like these eleven-year-olds. But Devon always promises her that they are people. They are completely people and the trauma in their lives can never negate that.

The children don't have to just work fast, they have to work perfectly. The wood has to be perfectly smooth, the proportions have to be exactly right, all the curves and lines have to be perfect for a beautiful doll in every way. They have to strain against themselves to keep their minds sharply focused on every single detail of the wood, on making sure they get every single detail right. It is excruciating, and it makes them choke with fear. But it is what their lives are.

For hours and hours and hours and hours they have to keep doing this. Time all blurs together into one terrible, trembling, never ending moment that stretches out until eternity, like some vile and thick slime that sticks together while it's being pulled apart. The pain, the terror, the strain, the exhaustion. The rush, the panic, the suffocation and death, it all blurs together. It blurs together and it blurs together and it never stops.

The children want to do anything else. They oh so desperately want to do anything else. But they cannot. They cannot be children. They cannot be people. They cannot be anything but perfect, efficient machines that work, work, work, for hours on end. They cannot be anything but perfect, immaculate dolls themselves, puppets that are strung to the wills of their owners.

Willow has the guts to call them their owners. She has the guts to call them their masters. But in the silence of her heart. In the secret parts of herself that she has to hide from everyone except Devon, she knows what is what. To an extent. And she does not lie to herself. But anyways, she watches her mouth around the adults. She has to.

She is tired, though. She is incredibly tired. All the children are tired. Her hands ache, her mind aches, her heart aches, her soul aches. She feels as if she has died and went to hell. And this is some sort of strange punishment for her soul. She wishes she was dead. Because then she could see her parents again.

She isn't the only one who is incredibly tired. All the children are. But all the children are also afraid. They are afraid to step even a toe out of line. They are afraid because Mrs. Ward will yell at them, venom and hatred raining down from her voice. These children are still children, no matter what they went through, no matter what they still continue to go through. And children are afraid of being yelled at. Children are afraid of being talked to as if they are nothing.

The children hate living in fear. They hate letting fear rule them. But they have to. Because they are always in a dangerous situation. They are always one wrong move away from getting screamed at, getting starved, getting locked in the walled courtyard in the winter. There is too much power that the adults hold over them. The power to feed them. The power to clothe them. The power to keep them alive. The lives of the children belong to those who run the orphanage, and everybody knows that.

Still, the kids want to be children. They want to play. They want to learn. They want to be held and protected and loved. They want their minds to be free, their bodies to be free, their hearts to be free. The love, the kindness, the safety, the comfort that comes with being a child, they want all of that. But they don't get even a taste of it. They have to live their lives like ghosts in a machine.

———

Mealtime is almost worse than work. But not really. But it is an aching, gouging, melancholy time anyways. The children have to be quiet. They always have to be quiet. And the all of the swirling loneliness suffocates them. The loneliness squeezes their throats, squeezes their eyes, squeezes their intestines. The loneliness smothers them like a thick, heavy blanket. And they can't breathe. They can't live. They can't stand. But they have to stand anyways.

Willow and Devon get Mrs. Ward's dinner from the kitchens. The meal had been prepared by other children who were working in the kitchens. It is a tantalizing meal, and it brings water to the mouths of Devon and Willow. They gaze at all they cannot have as they set the silver tray on the the table where Mrs. Ward sits in her fancy and cushioned chair.

The pair then go back to their own spots on the wooden bench that doesn't have a back rest. They fall in line with all the other children seated at the tables. They all want to talk to each other. They all very desperately want to talk to each other. And they all need to talk to each other too. Children are not meant to be lonely.

It is horrific, it is suffocating having to be in the same room as other children, having to be so close to other children, yet having to be silent. There are people all around. There are children all around. They could help each other, they could comfort each other, they could hear each other's problems and communicate with each other. But they can't. They can't offer each other any company, any simple words of comfort, or any companionship.

And it's torturous. It's all incredibly torturous. They are human beings. Despite being orphans, they are human beings. Despite being poor, they are human beings. Despite being exploited, being devastated, being denied, they are human. Though of course, despite is not the right word. It is because of these things specifically that they are even more human, even more human than the comfortable people in their houses who never have to think about anything ever could be.

The children gulp down their words. They gulp down the words they are oh so very desperate to say. And the words sit damp and wet and heavy, oh so heavy, in their guts. Cutting into them, grinding them, weighing down their hearts and their minds and their bodies. All the words they cannot say claw into their throats and still they have to force themselves to keep their mouths shut, keep their mouths shut, keep their mouths shut. Because the alternative is so much worse.

But still, there is a sense of solidarity that pervades through the room. A sense of solidarity that it is impossible to miss, that is thick in the very air itself. Because the children all think about each other. And they know they all think about each other. Of course, they can't comfort each other, can't talk to each other, can't even look at each other. But they can wish that they could do so. And all the children know that all the other children wish that they could do so.

There is a strange sort of solidarity in the air always, every second that there is air. There is a strange sort of unity, of connectedness. They aren't allowed to connect. But they do. They do however they can, even if it is only in the silence of their own hearts. Even though it is only in the silence of their own hearts. They connect to each other.

But of course, that doesn't make the loneliness go away. The loneliness is still thick and overwhelming, is dark and wet and poisonous and suffocating, absolutely suffocating. It doesn't stop the loneliness from painting every part of their lives in a darkness that is deadness, a deadness that is silence, a silence that is dark. It doesn't stop the loneliness from being worse than death.

The children don't complain though. They can't complain. They aren't allowed to and that makes it so much worse. That makes it so, so much incredibly worse. Because, if pain is allowed to be expressed, if it's allowed to be spoken about, if it's allowed to be brought into the light of day for others to acknowledge, then the pain lessens. But if pain isn't allowed to be all that, if pain isn't allowed to do all that, then it multiplies and multiplies and multiplies intensely. And it's unbearable. Unendurable. But they have to endure anyways.

The adults, though. They can talk. They don't talk to the children. Of course, they don't talk to the children unless they're shouting rebukes or barking orders. But they talk to each other. Each of them sits at the head of a different table, in plush chairs while the children sit on hard benches. But the tables are close to each other and they can talk amongst themselves easily. So they do.

They talk about their lives, and their thoughts and their emotions and their needs and their wants. They talk about their experiences. About the books they read, the plays they attended, the clothes they bought, the other things they bought. They talk about how their families are doing, and about their plans for the future. And they listen to and respond to each other.

The kindness, the politeness, the cordiality with which they talk to each other cuts deep. It cuts each of the children so very deep. Because the adults in their lives are capable of being kind. The adults in their lives are capable of being caring. It's just that they aren't kind to the children. They just aren't caring to the children. And that cuts deep. That cuts so deep. That cuts so incredibly deep.

All the children think it would be better if the adults just didn't talk at all. Because then at least, the children wouldn't know how kind the adults were capable of being, despite those adults being so cruel to them.

But anyways, the children shove their food into their mouths and they gulp the food down. Because they have to. Because this food is the only food they have, the only food they get to eat. And if they don't eat, they get yelled at, which is so abjectly terrifying. And if they don't eat, they starve. And no matter how much they want to starve, no matter how much they want to die, they don't have the courage to actually do so. They are just children after all.

But the food is difficult to eat. It is disgusting. Bland and tasteless and burned. It actually isn't even tasteless. It tastes burned and charred. The children who cook meals for the other children in the orphanage have to cook an incredible amount of food in not nearly enough time, with not nearly enough people. It's not their fault that they cannot do a good job of it. And the other children don't blame them for it.

The food, aside from being tasteless, is absolutely devoid of nutrition as well. There aren't enough vitamins, or minerals. Not enough amino acids or proteins or healthy acids or calcium. There is just blandness, just carbohydrates, just what would keep them going long enough to keep working. Their bodies are breaking down because of this impoverished meal. But their caretakers do not care.

The children know. They know that there is something wrong with the food. They know it doesn't have what food should have. Because they see how pale the other kids are, how sunken their eyes are. They feel how much their bodies ache and how unsatisfied they feel after each meal. But still, at least they are getting fed. And the children know that even that can be taken away from them if they complain. So they don't.

After meal times, it is always time to do more work around the orphanage. Sweeping floors, washing walls, wiping windows, dusting railings. Keeping the place immaculate for the visitors who come to see if they want to spend their money on this operation. Work never ends for the children.

———

"I can't wait to grow up and get out of here," Willow whispers to Devon. Her voice is hopeless and hopeful both at the same time. She sounds exhausted, is exhausted, and her voice is soft.

"It's seven more years until we turn eighteen," the boy answers. He sounds defeated.

The two children are lying face to face, inches apart from each other, breathing in each other. They are curled up on the thin straw mattress that is on their shared cot, under the ratty yet warm blanket that they are lucky to have. Between them is a half-finished wooden doll, with strangely-shaped limbs and no face. They both hold on to the doll as if it is a lifeline.

They are in their room. Though the more accurate word would probably be cell. There is a small bed in one corner of the room, a window on one wall, half of it across from the bed and half of it reaching towards the centre of the wall. The window reaches up to the low ceiling of the room. There are bars on the window, made of metal, which also reach up to the ceiling but stop just before. Besides the bed, there is no other furniture.

It's night time. Just shortly after the children were sent to bed. They have to be quiet, have to be careful. But, here in the silence of the night, with no-one seeing them, no-one rebuking them or hurting them, or judging them, they can talk. And the two children do talk. They talk like they do every night, hands laced over the wooden doll.

"Seven years," Willow repeats. "That's as long I've been in this accursed orphanage."

"I've been here five," Devon whispers.

"I miss my parents. So much." Her words sound hallowed. Haunted. She feels the loss every moment of her life.

"Same. I had an aunt who wanted to take care of me. But they didn't let her." There is a deep sense of loss in his voice.

"I was staying with my neighbours before the orphanage came."

"It's strange, how they want us to be here instead of with families who want to raise us,"

"They want us to work for them. It's their business model." There is ire laced thick in Devon's voice.

"They want us as slaves," Willow asserts, full of hate and wisdom. "And slavery is illegal, so they frame it as if they're helping us."

"And they make sure to get as much money as they can out of us."

"It's really unfair. I hate it."

"I know. Me too."

"And I love saying that I hate it."

"I love hearing you say that. Because it's the truth."

"You give me life. Talking to you, it gives me life."

"It gives me life too. I don't know if I could have borne it, if I could have survived without you."

"I feel the same way."

Suddenly the sound of the lock turning in their door creaks throughout the room. Both children have been listening for this sound. They have been keeping their conversation low so that the sound of the lock could be heard. And it can be heard easily, as it reverberates through the quiet room.

The kids immediately hush, and they close their eyes to pretend to be asleep. It is still early in the night, but they are technically supposed to be asleep anyways.

The night guard, Miss Binny, comes into the room. She is not that much older than the oldest inmates at the orphanage. She has dark hair and darker eyes. And the children like her.

"Aww," she coos softly, looking at the "sleeping" forms below her. "You little girls are so cute." She keeps her voice soft, keeps it hushed, for fear of waking up the children. Of course, she doesn't know that they're already awake.

Devon and Willow, on the other hand, are listening closely to everything they can hear. They are soaking up the small comforts like drooping, wilting plants soaking up water in a drought. And they are taking in every bit of comfort that this adult has to offer. Because it's never enough. What the adults in their lives give them is never enough. Not even Miss Binny.

"You girls are always so sweet." She brushes a soft hand oh so tenderly over Devon's cheek, and then over Willow's cheek, and they both cherish the soft touch. It is the only soft touch they have received all day, except from each other. It is the only soft touch they have received from an adult. And they cherish it. They cherish it so much.

"Sleep, so soft, like clouds under moon. Sleep, for dawn, will be coming so soon." She sings the soft lullaby for a few moments. Her voice is soothing, is a low murmur in the otherwise quiet room. The two children listen to every moment.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she says as she leaves he room. The door shuts behind her, and the lock clicks back into place. The moonlight flows in through the curtains as the children open their eyes and gaze into each other again.

"She's nice," Devon whispers.

"She is. But that doesn't make being here bearable," Willow complains.

"Still ..." Devon starts, "it would be so much worse if she wasn't here."

"I wonder why she's like this. Why she's nice to us."

"I wonder too. But she is, and that's what matters."

"I wish we could see her not just during the night."

"Me too. She would be so much better than Mrs. Ward or the others."

"I hope she stays until we turn eighteen."

"Me too."

"When we turn eighteen. That's so far away." There is desolation in Willow's voice.

"It feels like decades, doesn't it?" Devon sounds hopeless. Sounds destroyed. Because he is.

"It's more than half of how long I've even been alive."

"And life these days feels so long, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It does. It feels so unbearably long."

"Every single moment seems to stretch and drag out."

"Minutes feel like months. Days feel like years."

"If every day is a year how are we going to get through seven years of hundreds of days each?"

"I don't want to. I don't want to get through it."

"I don't want you to either. I want you to be free."

"I want you to be free too."

"Freedom. What does that even look like?"

"Like no more work, oh my gods."

"You're right. And enough actually healthy food. And being able to play."

"It means people being nice to us, and having friends."

"It means having a family. It means being able to be with our families."

"I miss my family." The deep, aching sadness is pouring off of Willow in torrents.

"Me too. I can't bear living without them. But you're my family now, too." He brings his hand up to softly stroke Willow's cheek, and finds it wet with tears.

"I love you so much."

"Me too."

"But we'll have to live without freedom."

"Not if we don't live."

"Are you. Are you suggesting we die?"

"I don't want to live. Do you?" Devon's words are darker than blackness and deeper than the earth.

"I don't want to either." Willow takes a long time to think before she says this, but she speaks these words with such absolute surety that it sends shivers up Devon's spine. She takes a while to think, again. "I don't want you to live either. Or anyone here."

"So do we just ... not live then?"

"I don't know. Do you think you'll be able to do that?"

"I will, but I can't let you die and I'm really sorry about that." There is deep remorse in his voice, deep shame. His voice wavers with raw emotion.

"I can't let you die either. But I want you to be free. I want you to be free so bad." Her voice wavers with raw emotion as well.

The two children lie in silence for a while, hands interlaced over the doll. They stare at each other. And their eyes are shadowed, their mouths are shadowed, their faces are shadowed. Their hearts are shadowed. But they have each other.

The lock on the door creaks open once again and Miss Binny comes in. She softly strokes the children's hair and whispers a gentle prayer over them before leaving. Once the door's lock clicks shut once again, Willow speaks.

"We can leave." Her words carry a furtive, barely-there note of hope.

"Leave the orphanage?" Devon's words are laced through with disbelief.

"Why not?"

"Because they've done so much for us. They've fed us, and clothed us. They've given us somewhere to stay. I don't think it would be right, letting them down like that."

"They fed us. Sure. But did you taste the food they fed us? I know it was all they could afford but still, I don't think we owe them for that."

"I don't think they can't afford better food," Devon admits. "You see how the adults eat. You see how they dress. You see how they conduct themselves. They have money. They just don't want to give it to us."

"Yeah, I think you're right."

"They do say they aren't able to do better though?"

"As if that stands up to any scrutiny."

"But still, they are doing something and that's better than nothing and that something is keeping us alive."

"They don't care about us. They don't care about our lives. If they did, they would treat us better. If they did, they would let us talk to each other, let us be friends with each other, let us play and have fun. If they cared about us, they would be kind to us." Her words are urgent and pressing and oh so assertive.

"They don't care. They only care about making money from our work. But still, they did help us."

"This isn't help. There's no love behind it. There's no respect behind it. There's no humanity behind it. What will help is if we get out."

"But don't we owe them?" Devon's voice is uncertain, hopeful, scared.

"Owe them for what? A life that isn't a life? A life that is worse than death? No, we don't owe them for that." Willow asservates. She stays quiet. She has to stay quiet. She knows the importance of it. But her voice is still filled with intense passion anyways.

"You're right. We don't." Devon takes a while to pause before saying this. But he does say it. And there is absolute certainty, and a terrifying hatred. But Willow is not scared. She smiles, and Devon gives her hand a little squeeze. "They are only keeping us alive for money," Devon continues, "we give them so much more than they give us. And our lives are not worth living anyways."

"They're really not," Willow agrees solemnly.

"So we should leave."

"We should. We should get out of here and go back to the people who were actually taking care of us. They were much nicer, and I know that they miss us."

"I'm sure that they do. But how do we leave? All the doors are locked and all the windows are barred."

"Hmm... I don't know." Willow takes a moment to think. "We could ask Miss Binny for help. She seems to care about us."

"She really does seem to care about us," Devon agrees. "She's a night guard. I'm sure she doesn't know what horrors go on in the daytime. If we could tell her, if we could let her know about our issues, then I'm sure she would help."

"So when should we tell her?"

"I don't know. Soon, hopefully?"

"I think we should take some time to prepare what we're going to say. We need to convince her of our struggles."

"I agree. We should tell her about how hard it is working all day, and being able to talk with no-one, and having to work so fast and so perfectly, and having to eat such bad food, and having no friends, and being yelled at. Being yelled at and being given orders. Being forced to obey. Being scared."

"Yes, we should tell her all of this. And we should tell her how miserable we are and how much we want to be free."

"She'll help us, I'm sure."

"She better help us. Or else, I don't know what we'll do."

———-

The children spend the next few days being miserable, being anguished, like they always are. But there is also a shining, crystallized sense of hope, along with that anguish. It is sweet, so incredibly sweet. And it is soft. So incredibly soft. It makes life just a little bit better. And they are just a little bit lighter, despite still being weighed down with as many dread-heavy, dead-heavy boulders in their guts.

They hide their hope. Of course they hide their hope. Everything rests on their ability to hide their hope. Everything rests on their ability to act like everything is normal, everything is unbothered, everything is unchanging. They take care to be silent, they take care to be dead-eyed, they take care to not step out of line. And the adults cannot tell. They cannot tell that there are dreams going on right under their noses.

The two friends spend the nights talking about what they are going to say to Miss Binny. And they plan as carefully as they can, until at last the long-awaited night comes.

"Good night, sweet children," amiss Binny whispers, standing over the two friends.

"Miss Binny," Devon speaks out softly. "Can we talk a little?"

"What?!" Miss Binny asks surprisedly. Her voice is still quiet but it is louder than it was before. "You girls are not asleep?" Devon decides to not correct her. They don't have time to argue about gender right now.

"We were waiting for you," Willow explains, clutching the deformed doll close to her chest. "We have to tell you something. Something important. You're the only one we can trust."

"Aww, you girls can trust me?" the young adult coos, "I'm very flattered."

"Yes, you're very nice," Willow continues. "Much nicer than all the others. And we are very grateful for you, and we are very grateful to you. We are very grateful for everything that you have done for us, and we cannot thank you enough."

"Yes," Devon echoes, "we are incredibly thankful, and incredibly grateful, and we cannot thank you enough. But thank you. One million thank yous. One billion thank yous." The children know that such praise is a bit of an exaggeration. Definitely, they are grateful for Miss Binny, but not that much. But they also know that grovelling will help them persuade her to their side.

"Aww, thank you so much, girls. I am very flattered." Her voice is thick with sweetness and happiness.

"Can we tell you something, though?" Willow asks. "Will you listen?"

"Sure. I'll listen," she responds.

"We hate it here, being in the orphanage," Willow explains. "The work that we have to do, it's too much. It's way too much."

"We have to work as fast as humanly possible," Devon adds. "Faster than humanly possible. We have to work faster than machines. And it's hard. It's really, really hard. It's scary and overwhelming and we feel like we're drowning all the time. We feel like we're dying all the time."

"Okay." Miss Binny's words are serious, are pensive.

"And we have to do everything exactly perfectly," Willow adds. "We have to do it all absolutely perfectly and not make any mistakes ever. Or else we get yelled at. And it's really scary, it's really terrible getting yelled at. There is so much hatred in their voices, so much raw anger, so much disgust. And no love. And, having to do our work without any flaws makes the work so much more panicked, so much more grinding and stressful and unbearable."

"They yell at us for a lot of things," Devon explains. "If we do anything wrong at all, whether we're working or not, they yell at us. And it hurts so much, to be yelled at. It's so terrifying. We feel like we're not humans, we feel like we're not people, we feel like we're going to die."

"They don't ever talk to us kindly," Willow states. "They don't ever say any kind words to us, they don't ever say any friendly words to us. Whenever they talk to us, they're either yelling at us or they're barking orders. They always speak with hatred in their voices. And it's so hard, it's so hard to live through that. It's so hard to live like that. It's like, we almost don't want to live." The "almost" part is a lie, of course.

"And we're not allowed to have friends," Devon adds. "We are not allowed to talk to other people. We're not allowed to talk to each other. We can't have friends. We can't connect to each other. We cannot help each other. We cannot comfort each other. We cannot share our lives with each other. We can't share our thoughts, our feelings, our emotions, our wants, our beliefs, our experiences. It's suffocating. It's crushing."

"We're never allowed to play either," Willow voices. "We're children, and we're not allowed to play. We're children, and we're not allowed to have fun. It hurts us, it crushes us. It feels like we're dead inside. This isn't any sort of life. It's not any sort of life at all."

"Oh my," Miss Binny's voice is compassionate. "I'll talk to the directors about improving the working conditions."

"That's the thing," Devon starts, "the directors won't care. If they did care, they would have fixed things long ago. If they did care, they wouldn't let the conditions be this bad."

"They don't think of us as people," Willow asserts. "They just think of us as a way to make money. They won't care."

"Well what do you want me to do?" There is a note of exasperation in Miss Binny's tone.

"Well, we were thinking you could help us sneak away." Willow's voice is sweet and imploring. "We won't ask anything more of you, just that you take us out of the orphanage compound. We'll figure things out from there. Please, help us get away. We'd be beyond grateful. It would be the nicest, kindest thing imaginable."

"Yes," Devon echoes, "it would be so incredibly nice."

"Children," Miss Binny's tone is harder than it usually is, colder than it usually is. "I can't do that. The orphanage takes care of you. Even if they hurt you, they still keep you alive. And the world will not keep you alive."

"We have people who took care of us before we came here," Devon insists. "And this life isn't a life. This life isn't worth living. Anything is better than this. Anything."

"Please, please help us," Willow begs.

"I'm sorry girls. I can't. You are safer here. You are provided for here."

"We're not happy here," Devon insists. "No-one can be happy here."

"I am sorry for you," the adult insists. "I really am. But I won't help you get out. You have to realize, this is what's best for you."

"Miss Binny," Willow pleads, "We thought you were kind."

"Kindness has its limits. I won't let you betray the people who have raised you. I won't let you betray the people who are keeping you alive."

"They don't care whether we live or die," Devon insists, "they only care about the profit we make them. We don't owe them anything."

"Whether you know it or not," Miss Binny retorts, "you owe them your lives. And I can't let you betray them."

"You're betraying us!" Willow proclaims softly, exasperation coating her voice.

"I will not let you do this!" Miss Binny declares, and she strides out of the room, locking it from outside.

———

"I hear you girls have been attempting to escape." Mr. Riche's words writhe and squirm in thick disgust and slimy malice. It sends shivers up Devon and Willow's spines. The two are standing in Mr. Riche's office, a large space with polished floors that reflect their bodies, and with furniture strewn around all over.

"We ..." Willow begins, "we didn't mean it. We were just trying to see what would happen if we tried."

"As if," Mr. Riche spits out. "Trying to lie will only make everything worse for you. I suggest you both accept your punishment with grace and humility."

"Our punishment?" Devon asks, voice terrified.

"You will be made to work during meal times instead of participating in the food with the others." Mr. Riche's voice is stark and cold and abjectly apathetic. The two children's eyes go wide in dread, but they do not dare to look at each other.

———

And so they hunger. Willow and Devon hunger. They hunger and it slices into them, grates on them, tears them down. It claws and bites and tears and wrends their insides. Their stomachs, their lungs, their chests, their hearts. They feel heavy and achy. They feel as if every step is painful, every movement is painful. Their minds feel thick, feel suffocated, feel throbbing with pain. They are lightheaded, and dizzy, and they are so, so empty.

The emptiness scrapes at them. It digs into them with thousands of needles everywhere. Every breath feels like breathing in death, feels like breathing in sand, feels like breathing in pins and needles. Every breath is jagged, is ragged, is aching. And it's never enough. Their lungs feel as though they are never filled, feel as though they are perpetually empty.

There is a throbbing in their heads, a throbbing that is overwhelming and grating. A throbbing that leaves them hollow, leaves them hurting, leaves them drowning and aching and boiling alive. They feel as if thick, viscous, hot poison is dripping down their brains, as if their brains have been hollowed out and their skulls have been scraped raw. Their emotions are overwhelming.

Their stomachs twist and writhe and squeeze. Their stomachs and chests feel like grand, aching caverns, deep and dark and empty and unfillable. They twist and writhe and squeeze inside the children, and they ache and they ache and they ache so much. As if there are thousands of sharp, jagged knives inside their guts, that dig in every time they take a breath and leave them jagged and bleeding and raw.

The pain from their stomachs radiates out to all parts of their bodies, to their arms and legs and hands and feet. Their limbs ache as well. They feel heavy and groggy. Their joints ache. And they feel as though there is a low, slow-burning fire in all their limbs, as if they are being burned alive, roasted. And it hurts to move, but they have to move anyways. They have to work anyways.

All day, they have to sand dolls. And it doesn't matter that they're hungry, it doesn't matter that they're hurting, they have to keep up with the rest of the children, they have to sand faster, so much faster than humanly possible, and they have to do it perfectly. They have to, or else their punishment will be extended, and so they do, no matter how much it hurts.

During meal times, they are sent to work cleaning the compound. This is also incredibly difficult, since they have to clear away every speck of dirt and dust. They have to go incredibly fast as well, and this overexerts their aching bodies. And it overexerts their aching minds, which are constantly screaming, are constantly having to scream at them, to go faster and faster and faster and faster. Better and better and better and better. Don't stop and don't stop and don't stop and don't stop. Until they are drowning in the screaming, absolutely starved of air.

They are sent often to clean the office spaces of the orphanage council. These offices are at the end of a long hallway that bends away from the rest of the orphanage. Therefore, from the large windows of the council offices, you can see the rest of the building, the orphanage proper where the children do their work and live their "lives".

These offices are large, they are immaculate, they are filled with intricate pieces of furniture and pretty ornaments. The two children are amazed, but also horrified, to see such vast displays of wealth. To see such resplendence when they know firsthand the poverty that exists just within view of the windows, just within easy sight of those who spend their days here while all the children toil away and waste their childhoods just over there.

They know it isn't fair. The two friends know that it is so very much not fair. But they don't know what they can do about it. They know they can do nothing. And they hate that fact, and the thick, heavy bitterness that they have to swallow down and choke on.

There is so much bitterness in their lives. There is so much powerlessness. There is so much agony. There is so much violence. Violence that has been going on for a long time. Violence that is as old as the deaths of their parents. Violence that has been wrought of exploitation and dehumanization. Violence that has come from betrayal. And violence that has come from the powerlessness that has coloured every experience that they have had in years. No child is meant for this much, or any, violence. No child is meant for this much, or any, cruelty. But Willow and Devon bear it and they have to bear it.

No matter how unfair it is, no matter how unbearable it is, no matter how absolutely impossible to bear it is, they have to bear it. And so do all of the other sweet and devastated children imprisoned in the orphanage.

———

They've been starving for three days when the storm hits. The wind howls and bellows, and the trees outside knock against the windows. Willow curls up closer to Devon. Both children are scared. Both children cannot sleep. Both children are clinging to each other for dear life, are clinging to their doll for dear life.

"I hate being here," Devon whispers.

"I hate being here too," Willow agrees.

"We should get out of here." His voice is dead serious.

"We tried already. Do you want to to get into even more trouble?" There's a note of desolation laced into her voice.

"Just because one escape plan didn't work doesn't mean that another won't."

"And what if we get caught again? Do you think you could take another punishment? Do you think you could take more hunger? Because I definitely can't."

"I can't either. I don't want us to get punished. Especially not again."

"So why are you proposing that we go out and get ourselves punished again?"

"Just hear me out. We won't get punished, I promise. We'll be able to actually escape this time."

"We won't get caught? How?" There is a note of confrontation in Willow's tone, but louder than that is the note of yearning.

"We'll be sneaky this time. They won't know that we're planning to escape. They won't know until we're already gone."

"And how will we be that sneaky?"

"We've been being sneaky since we came here. They didn't know about our friendship. They didn't know about our camaraderie. They didn't know about how we longed to get free, how we helped each to get through these horrors. They didn't know anything about us for so, so many years. Because we were good at keeping things secret."

"You're right," Willow agrees, "we are good at keeping secrets. But keeping our friendship secret is really different from keeping an escape plan secret. We'd have to make preparations beforehand, before escaping. And we'd have to keep those preparations a secret. How are we going to do that?"

"We'll find a way. We'll think really long and hard about it, and we'll find a way."

"The last time we didn't find a way, now did we?"

"The last time we were stupid. We trusted an adult. We shouldn't've done that, because they're all part of the system of this place, no matter how nice they might have been. We're smarter now. We know better. We won't make that mistake again."

"I agree. We do know better. And we are smarter now. But who's to say we won't make a mistake again?"

"We'll be more careful this time. We'll think everything through this time. They won't be able to stop us this time."

"Why are you so certain?"

"Do you know the part of yourself that knows you love me, that knows you love all the children here?"

"Yes."

"That part is very certain, isn't it?"

"It is."

"And you know that that part of you is telling the truth, and it knows the truth, and it knows what's real and good no matter what, right?"

"Right."

"Well that same part is telling me that we need to escape, that we can escape, that it's possible for us."

"Okay."

"Take some time to look within yourself. Take some time to think within yourself. You will see it too. You will see that we can escape."

Willow takes a while to think.

"I want to believe you," she finally responds. "I really do."

"Then do it," Devon suggests, "believe me. Believe yourself. Believe us."

She takes another while to think again.

"Okay," she finally replies.

"So you'll try to escape with me?"

"I will. We'll be careful, though."

"We will."

———

The next day, the two friends are cleaning the offices again when Willow looks out of the window for a second and she sees it.

"Devon, look out the window," she whispers. He lifts his head for the smallest moment before looking back down at his work. There are no adults supervising them so they can do this.

There is a fallen tree. It was knocked over during the storm. But that's not what's remarkable. What's remarkable is the fact that as it fell, it knocked out an entire corner of the building. The dining hall had the corner of two of its wooden walls stripped away. And light could be seen coming from the dining hall. However, at the very top of the rip in the building, it is darker. As if the only light is coming from the tear in the wall. And they can see a layer of wood that separates the ceiling of the dining hall from the dark crawl space above it.

The children continue cleaning, as if nothing is amiss, as if nothing is strange. They continue cleaning, and then they go back to working on the dolls, then they go back to cleaning. Then they go to bed.

"Did you see that?" Willow's voice is soft and hushed.

"I did see that. The building was destroyed. It was ripped open. We could just walk right out."

"We could just walk right out."

"But we can't, Willow." Devon's voice is discouraged. "They've definitely noticed the storm damage and locked off the dining hall."

"They have. But what about the space above the dining hall?"

"Could you elaborate?"

"There is a space above the ceiling of the dining hall. You saw it. The dining hall was light, because light was coming in through the windows. But the space above was darker, because there were no windows there. Also, there was a wooden layer separating the two spaces, you could see it."

"So what?"

"If there is a space above the dining hall ceiling, there might be a space above our ceiling. And the two spaces could be connected."

"Just because there's a space above our room's ceiling that leads to the outside, that doesn't mean we can reach it. We have a ceiling above us, in case you haven't noticed."

"But this building is cheap. Everyone knows that this building is cheap. I'm willing to bet that the ceiling beams aren't actually nailed down, they're just placed on the wooden beam framework. I'm willing to bet that we could just lift them away."

"You know what? That sounds so plausible." Devon's voice is beaming with hope. "Let's check. But let's wait until Miss Binny comes in and then leaves again first. We don't want her walking in on us."

"Absolutely." Willow smiles in the darkness.

And so they do wait. Miss Binny comes in, and she sings to them, and this time the children know better than to get caught up in her sweetness, in her softness. She strokes their hair, and they pretend to be asleep, and they don't have to force themselves to not recoil at her touch. A soft stroke is a soft stroke, even if they hate the person giving it to them. And then the two friends are left alone.

Devon walks up to the window and he climbs the bars on the window that are put up to stop them from escaping. He laughs ruefully inside his head at the irony. When he reaches the top, he reaches one hand out to lift the beams of the ceiling away. They move away easily. Willow has to stop herself from screaming out loud in joy.

——-

Willow and Devon know that time is not on their side. They know that the gap will be fixed in just a few weeks at most. But they also know that they have to make sure they do this right, that they plan this right. So they take a day to plan. And they plan as meticulously as they can. And they take a day to count.

The thing they're counting is how long the stretch of time is between Miss Binny's visits. If they know how long they have after she leaves and before she comes again, then they know how fast they need to go, they know what they do and don't have the time to do. They know when and how to best strike. When and how to best try. When and how to best win.

It's hard, staying awake when you're starving, when you're exhausted, when you've worked all day. It's really hard. But what is harder is letting your best friend live a life of slavery. They know that they'll be able to be free, to be loved, and to be fed when they escape. They know that they'll be able to be children at last. And so they can keep themselves awake. Their excitement and anticipation can keep them awake.

It's a blessing of fate, Devon thinks, that they're able to stay awake despite everything. It's an act of goodwill on the behalf of a universe that had given them nothing but suffering up until now. He resolves to make as much out of this opportunity as he can, and he resolves to not fail this time. He can't let his best friend down. He can't let down the girl who is so incredible, so amazing, so much. He can't let down the hope that he gave her, or the hope that she gave him as well.

Willow feels as though she is finally, finally close to something somewhat resembling life. As if a beautiful and delicate wildflower is about to bloom. She knows that she will never be free of the curse of this place, and she'll never be free of the scars and the markings that it has left on her. But she also knows that she must rebel against this place that has taken so much from her, she must rebel against this place that has taken so much from so many of them. And she must make a new world for herself and her best friend.

Both friends have their hands interlaced with each other. They are taking turns squeezing each other's hand, first Willow, then Devon, then Willow, then Devon. They are squeezing each other's hands in a steady, uniform, pulsing rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Like the rising and lowering of the tides. Each time one of the children squeezes the other's hand, they both count. First one, then two, then three, then four. They count and keep on counting, higher and higher and higher.

It would be very boring, doing this, under any other circumstances. It would be very boring, just counting the minutes away. But this isn't just any circumstance. This isn't just any counting. They are counting the seconds and minutes they have to escape. The seconds and minutes they have to become free. And it's so exciting. It's so exciting doing this. It's so exciting, and entrancing, and thrilling, and intoxicating. They are tired. Of course they are tired, are exhausted. But it feels like pure electricity is flowing through them anyways.

After a bit more than two thousand counts, Miss Binny comes in again. She sees the two children curled up around their doll and she smiles to herself.

"They sure do love that doll," she murmurs. "I suppose that's understandable. It's the only toy they get to have. Poor children." She doesn't say anything else and then she leaves again. The children start counting again, in the silence of the night, in the silence of their minds. They need to know whether the times are always uniform, between different visits. If visits can even be the right word for it.

Willow counts. And in between counts she thinks about how hungry she is. She thinks about how tired she is. But she also thinks about how excited she is. It's cruel, it's oh so cruel what they have forced her to endure. The hunger is oh so cruel. The exhaustion is oh so cruel. The work is oh so cruel. The lack of kindness and softness and love is oh so cruel. The roughness, the rudeness, the hatred. The lack of freedom, the way they don't allow her to be a child. But what will be great, what will be beyond the sweetest pure sugar, will be getting revenge on them all by succeeding at escaping. And she knows that she can do just that.

Devon counts as well. He counts his own pulses. He counts Willow's pulses. He counts his own hand gently squeezing Willow's. He counts Willow's hand gently squeezing his own. He thinks about his hunger. It is impossible to not think about his hunger. It is impossible to not think about the pain of it. But he thinks, once they get out and become free, there will be no more hunger, there will be no more pain, there will be no more ache.

The darkness covers the two friends. It is like a blanket. It is like a cloak. It gives them cover and protection and just a bit of comfort. They know each other well in the darkness. They have grown up together in the darkness. They have shared their deepest, darkest secrets with the darkness, in the darkness, with each other in the darkness. And they trust the dark. They trust the nighttime that has brought them tiny slivers of freedom as much as it could for many long years, and will bring them a much bigger freedom soon. Hopefully. Hopefully.

They also trust the moon which shines its beautiful, soft light, more silver than anything imaginable. They trust the moon which sends its light through their window whenever it can, illuminating their lives with a softness and a steadiness, lending an otherworldly tint to their nighttime reality, to the reality of the time that they can share with each other.

Miss Binny comes in four times in total. It's always a bit more than two thousand counts in between visits. So the children know that they can have a bit of time to escape. They let themselves fall asleep finally, knowing that tomorrow will be the the last day they stay in this accursed place.

———

The day goes on and it's weary, like every day is. They are bone-weary, just like they are every day. Not just Devon and Willow, but all the children of the orphanage. They all deserve so much better, every single one of them. They all need so much better, every single one of them. Willow and Devon wish they could save each and every one of them. They wish that so badly.

But finally the night time comes, and it is time to go. It is time to put everything into action. It is time to use the one small chance they do have.

Willow and Devon are lying down, the blanket above their heads, completely covering them. They are talking silently, waiting for Miss Binny to come and then go.

"I want to save the other children too," Willow whispers.

"I do too. But how are we even going to contact them? We can't go out into the hallway. Miss Binny might be in the hallway."

"Well, can we get to their rooms from the attic? It probably connects to all the other rooms." There is hope in her voice. And love. So much love.

"We could try that. It's a good idea." There is a sort of brightness in Devon's voice that has never been there before.

"No. If won't work." Willow's tone is dark and death-kissed.

"Why?" Devon's tone rapidly darkens as well.

"We won't know whether Miss Binny's in the rooms. What if she's in the room when we enter it? Then everyone would be in a lot of trouble and no-one would escape."

"You're right. I guess we can't save everyone." There is resentment laced into Devon's words. But he knows, he knows Willow's being reasonable. "I'm sorry. I guess we can only save ourselves."

"Still, I guess that's something," Willow replies, tone laced with ice-cold sadness but also with fire-bright hope.

The lock in the room clicks, and the night guard walks in. She sees the two lumps, the two children, under the blanket. And she speaks a soft prayer over them before leaving.

"Now's our chance," Willow states into the small room.

"Yes, now's our chance," Devon echoes.

The two friends get up, silently, soundlessly. Their hearts are beating so hard that they can feel it in their chests, they can feel it in their throats, they can feel it in their stomachs. This part of the plan is the trickiest part, and they want to make sure they are doing it right. They want to make sure they don't kill their dream before it even gets started.

They roll up their thin straw mattress, each rolling up one end so that the mattress has two rolls in it, and one flat, unrolled space in the middle, between the two rolls. They shape and mould the rolled up parts of the mattresses, so that they look like two children sleeping. This is a critically important piece of the plan, and it's critically important that they get it right.

And so they hold their breath while they're doing this. They hold their breath and they hold their hearts in their throats. They are terrified. Not more terrified than they ever have been in their lives, but overwhelmingly terrified anyways. But they are also exhilarated. They are soaring on possibility, on hope, and it is this hope that is guiding each and every movement of their hands as they make sure to fashion the straw mattress just right.

After they are done shaping the mattress, they carefully drape the blanket over it. They pull the blanket down over all sides of the small bed frame so that none of the portion of the bed frame that's for sleeping on is exposed, so that they cover every place that they mattress would have been. They cover every place that the mattress would have been, so that the night guard cannot see the lack of the mattress on the bed, so that she can only see the blanket, and she thinks nothing of it. And of course, they make sure to cover the rolled and shaped mattress as well.

This part is terrifying as well. They know that they have to do it just right, in order to make everything believable, in order to make nothing suspicious. They know that if Miss Binny happens to try to touch what she believes are the two children, they will be doomed. But they also know that Miss Binny tends to not try to touch them if they're covered with the blanket, so they are not too worried about that. Still, they are worried, and they make sure to make everything absolutely perfect, entirely perfect, so that they have less to fear. So that they can succeed.

The children look at their handiwork. And they smile. They are smiles laced with thudding hearts and twisting stomachs and soaring spirits, with hunger and fear and hope. They are smiles supersaturated with so many emotions, both good and bad and everything in between. They are smiles laced with joy and worry, and they are laced with love, so much incredible love.

"Let's put the doll in the blankets now," Devon suggests. His words are hushed. Are so quiet that they're barely there. But Willow hears. Willow always hears, just as she is meant to.

"But I want to bring the doll with us." Willow's words are equally quiet, are equally hushed. No-one outside the room would have even the slightest chance of hearing her. But Devon hears perfectly, just as he is meant to.

"I do too, but if we leave the doll, it will help convince Miss Binny that we are sleeping in bed." Devon's words carry regret in them, but they also carry a note of logic.

"I suppose you're right," Willow concedes. "If she sees the doll here, she'll be sure that we're still here and that we haven't left." Willow's words are sad but they're clear, they're understanding, they're resolute. She takes the doll in her hand and then places it inside the blanket so that only its misshapen head is sticking out.

"Bye-bye, doll," Devon whispers.

"Bye-bye, doll," Willow bids quietly.

They proceed to the next part of their plan. Willow and Devon climb onto the windowsill and they oh so gently, oh so carefully remove the beams on the ceiling right above the windowsill. Their hands are almost shaking, with excitement and fear both at once. They know that they have to do this quietly. They know that they have to do it as quietly as they can so that nobody outside the room has any chance of hearing them. But they also know that they have to do this quickly, because the two of them only have a certain amount of time to get out of this room. And so they also move as quickly as they can, despite the fact that the balance of speed and silence is hard to maintain.

When the beams have finally been moved enough to let a body though, the two friends silently celebrate in the quietness of their minds. But they only take the smallest moment to do this, since they have to get moving immediately. They know that they don't have time, they don't have time, they don't have time. They have to move and they have to move fast. And so they go on.

Devon climbs down gently as Willow climbs up the bars of the window. Devon ponders how ironic it is, that the very thing that was meant to keep them locked in - the window bars - is the very thing that will help them escape. Willow reaches one hand up through the hole and she grabs hold of a wooden beam that connects two rafters. It is hard to grab onto and get a good grip, but the abject terror with which Willow is operating sends so many pulses of frantic energy constantly flowing through her that her hand becomes strong and she is able to grasp the beam and not let go.

She then reaches her other hand to join the first hand, holding the beam from the opposite side as the first hand, so that both sets of fingers are facing towards the middle of the beam. She breathes. And she takes her feet off of the window bars. The sudden weight is hard to hold up. But she's terrified. She's so terrified, and her whole body knows very well the importance of this moment. So her hands are able to hold her up. They are able to hold her up despite having to hold all her weight. Despite having to do so through hunger. The fear wins over the hunger.

She swings her body back and forth, each swing becoming wider than the last. Then, eventually she is able to swing her legs all the way up to the ceiling. She bends her knees when she reaches the ceiling and then she straightens them so that they catch on the ceiling. She winces at the sound this makes, but she prays to whatever divinity might be listening that the adults think this sound just a random knocking about of things.

She walks her hands down the beam, first letting go with one hand and then holding on again farther down the beam, then letting go with the other hand and then holding on again farther down the beam. As she does this, she walks her feet along as well, being sure to move as quietly as possible so that no sound escapes. This act is difficult, and requires immense amounts of strength from her arms and her hands and her core. But eventually she reaches the edge of the hole in the wall and she lifts her body up so that she is completely inside the attic.

She smiles, and then softly, silently, crawls away to give Devon the space to get himself up into the attic as well. Devon follows all the same steps Willow followed. He is strong, because he has to be. He is silent, because he has to be. He is quick, because he has to be. And thank all the stars in the sky, he is successful!

The two children quickly move the beams back in place, as quietly as they can, so that the hole in the ceiling is covered. Then they move.

They crawl through the attic. The attic is small, it's cramped. But thankfully the children are small as well, and they can fit. The universe is really on their side, making things work out for them. They thank the universe and continue crawling through the attic. They have to make sure their hands and feet reach the floor softly, silently, without any sound. And they have to make sure they get out of here before dawn.

Their hearts are singing. They're still afraid, but their hearts are singing. They are still weighed down by heaviness, by desolation, but their hearts are singing. They are so close, so close, so very close. And they feel how close they are. And they know that they cannot mess up these last steps. They cannot go so far only to be caught. But they are fairly confident, they are fairly confident that they will not be caught.

And so they keep on crawling through the dark attic towards the light. Because the attic is pitch black. But there is a faint glow of moonlight coming through the hole in the walls. Once again, the moon is their salvation and saviour. And they thank the moon immensely for its help, and for always being there for them whenever it could be.

They crawl over the seemingly unending stretch of orphanage. They don't know where they are in relation to what's below them. But they know that they are getting closer, getting closer, getting closer and closer to freedom.

Finally, they are right at the broken corner. It's time to jump.

"I'm scared," Devon admits.

"It's one jump. One jump and then we'll be free," Willow comforts.

"But still ... it's so high." He sounds like the child he is.

"But if they catch us now, up here," Willow points out, "they will kill us."

"You're right, they will."

Devon jumps, and lands with a thud, legs banging into the fallen tree. It hurts. It hurts so much. But he stops himself from screaming or crying out or making any sound. And Willow does the same. The next thing they both do is look up at the sky. This is the first time they have been outside in years, under the clear and open sky that sparkles with stars.

"It's so beautiful," Willow whispers, amazed, awestruck.

"It is," Devon agrees.

"Where should we go now?" Admittedly, the children had been so worried about trying to escape that they have no plan for what to do after they did escape. But there is a vast and mighty forest on one side of them and the town on the other side. And they have a choice.

"Let's go to the forest," Devon suggests. "They will look for us in the town, they will search everywhere. But they won't go into the forest. You've heard what the adults said about the forest. It's too dangerous. No-one ever goes there. They won't search there."

"The forest doesn't look scary to me," Willow proclaims. "It looks so beautiful. It looks so amazing. I want to go there." There is wonder in her voice as she says this, looking out over the thick wooded land.

And so the two children go off, into the undergrowth, following a small deer trail that is illuminated by the smallest fragments of moonlight.

———

The two friends keep walking all night, and until the night turns to day. They have never felt this light since their parents died. Of course, they still feel heavy. They still feel so incredibly heavy. The death of their parents weighs them down. The horrors they have endured for so many years weighs them down. They are weighed down by thousands of boulders, in their chests, in their stomachs, in their throats. In their hearts, in their minds, in their spirits. They are weighed down and they always will be. But still, their souls are flying. There is sadness, yes, but there is happiness too. There is happiness, yes, but there is sadness too.

The forest is beautiful. The forest is incredibly beautiful. The deer trail they are following is small, tiny and narrow. It is ringed on either side by tall, towering trees, by wild and brilliant bushes, by wild herbs. They see squirrels and birds and even a moose. They freeze when they see a snake and they carefully avoid it. There is wild, wild green and wild, wild brown, in all different shades and patterns and textures.

It's all glorious. All of it is so glorious. Even the snake. And all of it is so healing, so soothing, so calming. Of course it doesn't heal everything. Of course it doesn't fix everything. The scars that the children have to bear, they will have to bear forever. The weight that the children have to bear, they have to bear forever. And the forest doesn't fix everything. But it sure does help. Immensely.

They feel at home here. They feel more at home than they have ever felt since their parents died. And they feel free here. More free than they have ever felt before. They are mesmerized, mesmerized, so deeply mesmerized by everything all around them, by the life and love and flow and burning of everything all around them. It is so full of emotion. Each and every inch of the forest is so filled with emotion, filled with spirit, filled with love and life and harmony. It's glorious.

And they feel so intimately a part of it. They feel intimately connected to it, connected to all the life around them, connected to all the flowing love that pulses and weaves its way through the forest. They feel intimately connected to all the different parts of the cacophony around them. And they feel their hearts, they feel in their hearts the importance of their connection, the importance of their existence, the importance of their love.

They are mesmerized, and held like they haven't been held in years. But they are also hungry. Incredibly hungry. The hunger gnaws at them and they are desperate for food.

Thankfully, they quickly find a large patch of wild berries. They immediately descend upon it, pulling berries off the bushes and shoving them into their mouths. They eat berry after berry after berry after berry until they are absolutely stuffed and can fit no more, following the bushes away from the deer trail.

"Hi, children," a voice calls out. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Hearing this, both of them snap their heads around in surprise and terror. Standing before them, partially obscured by a large bush, is a woman clothed in a leather dress. She has long hair, and kind eyes, and skin that is darkened by the sun. She is gazing at them with curiosity, sombriety, and just a hint of amusement.

She is not what the children are expecting at all. They do not expect for another person to be in the forest. They are afraid. They haven't had any good interactions with adults so far.

"Who are you guys?" she asks again. "I'm Elizabeth, and I'm a girl."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Devon asks warily.

"You don't have to trust me, I'll earn your trust," she replies. "But in the meantime, do you two children want to come meet the rest of my group?"

"Okay," Willow responds.

They are lead through the forest to a small spring. Beside the spring, there is a small group of tents, made of wood and furs. There are people gathered around, doing various things. They are also dressed in leather.

"Who are these ones, Elizabeth?" someone who is probably a man asks.

"I'm not quite sure yet, Jason," Elizabeth answers. "They're children, and I found them by a berry patch. I think they need water. Do you guys need water?" Elizabeth asks.

The two newcomers nod, and a teenager goes up to the spring and fills a leather pouch full of water, before handing it to them. The two drink heavily, trying the quench their thirst.

"So you've met me," Elizabeth tells them, "But this is my friend Jason, and his wife is away gathering food along with their two older children Dustin and River. This is his youngest child, Inara, who's a girl. This is my wife, Alexandra, and this is my brother Kaiden. This is his wife Christina, and their two children Ali and Ruth. Dublin and Candace are away setting traps, and their children are with them. Dustin and his husband Tristen are also setting traps."

"Nice to meet you guys," Willow answers. "Why are you out here in the woods? Don't you know that it's dangerous?"

"Well, that's what the city dwellers think," Inara answers. "But Elizabeth and Alexandra were the first people who stopped listening to the brainwashing and they came into the forest. They've convinced the rest of us to join them, over the years, and we couldn't be happier. This is a nice place. How about you guys, why are you here?"

"We lived in the orphanage," Devon responds. "Well, not lived, really. It wasn't a life, really. We escaped, and decided to go into the forest because the people who ran the orphanage wouldn't look for us here."

"That's a good idea, coming into the forest," Kaiden responds. "We're glad you came here. Do you want to live with us? You guys are children and need to be taken care of. We'll take care of you."

"Okay," Willow answers. "You folks seem nice. I'm Willow, by the way, I'm a girl. And this is my best friend Devon. He's a boy."

"Nice to meet you both," Christina says. "Welcome to our community."

"Is there anyone you left behind, who you want us to convince to join us?" Jason questions.

"If you could free the other children at the orphanage, that would be good," Willow responds. "But that's not possible."

"You could help us find our families, and bring them here," Devon pleads. "After our parents died, I was being raised by my aunt and Willow was being raised by her neighbours. We miss them. I'm sure they miss us too."

"Absolutely," Alexandra answers. "We will find them. Don't you worry, we will find them. And after that, we will convince them to come into the forest. I'm sure they'll agree once they know you children are here. Do you know where they live?"

"Yes," Willow answers. "How could we ever forget our homes? We always thought about going back throughout our whole time at the orphanage."

"Yes," Devon agrees.

"Don't let them know you guys can read," my mother tells me, voice low and serious and urgent. There are six of us here, sitting in the dirt. Four kids, the other kids of the house, me, and my mother. We are sitting beside the road, sitting outside the rickety door of our hut. A half-rotted door filled with holes that does very little to keep the cold and the wind and the rain out. We are practicing our reading and writing skills by etching letters into the dust of the road using a broken pen we found lying by the side of the road.

"Why not, Mama?" I ask, looking at her fearful and tender face. "What will happen if they know?" We all know who they are. Whenever anyone in my community says they, and doesn't specify who exactly they is, whenever it's not obvious who they is, then the people mean the overclass. They mean the people who lord over us, who have so much while we have so little, and who we all are forced to work for in order to survive.

"They don't want people like us reading," Mama tells me. "That would mean that we have power. That would mean that we have the power to read their books and we have the power to debate them and refute their ideas."

"But we don't have to read their books in order to refute their ideas," Malita states. "We know that their ideas are bad because we have to live in the world their ideas made."

"I know, sweet child. I know. Our lives are lesson enough that everything is wrong. But the overclass, they think that all knowledge comes from books, they think that all knowledge can only come from books, and that if we don't have books we won't have knowledge. They don't know that true knowledge is lived and experienced and found through gnosis in our hearts."

"Wow, that's really stupid of them." Raylenn's voice is dark and clouded over by a broken sort of humour.

"It really is. But it works in our favour. It makes it easier for us to hide from them what we know. And you have to be careful, my child. You have to hide what you know from the overclass. All the knowledge you have, both from gnosis and from teaching."

"We will." Farley promises solemnly. "We all know how serious this is. We have to keep it a secret."

"So, what does this word say?" Mama asks us, pointing to the word she has spelled out in the dust.

We all take a moment to sound it out, carefully matching the curves and lines of each letter to the knowledge we've been taught over the years.

"Inspiration," Calliden speaks out, slight joy in his voice.

"Good job, my child," Mama tells him. "And good job all of you. You're getting it. Now I'm going to write it into a sentence. Tell me what that sentence is." She uses the pen to write into the dust of the ground. Above us the sweet sun is still in the sky as it is a summer day, but it is getting lower and soon it will be too dark to make out the words in the dust. So we make the most of the time that we have here.

"We have been impressed with much inspiration from the novel," Raylenn speaks out, carefully sounding out the sentence.

"What's a novel?" Farley asks, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"It's a big, long book that tells a story," Mama answers.

"Oh, that's cool," Calliden states. "It sounds like something the overclass would have."

"It does," I agree. "I bet they have so many stories."

"Our stories are better," Malita assets.

"Are you all ready for the next word?" Mama asks.

"Yes!" we cry out in a messy unison.

We concentrate as best as we can, but our concentration isn't that good, considering that we're all kids. Still, we all try our best. We all try our best and we make a lot of good progress. I review many of the words that I already know, and I learn three new words. Well, I learn how to spell them. I've known how to say them for a while now. I'll have to knock about the new words in my head. I'll have to think about them and make sure that I remember them.

Eventually it is time for us to go inside. So we filter back into our little hut, which is just big enough for us all to sleep in. The other kids' Papa and Dada - my uncles Chandon and Dromon - are already in the house. My Daddy is not there, neither is my baby sister. My dad has her, and is off somewhere visiting neighbours. They should be back soon, I'm sure.

"So how was the lesson?" Uncle Dromon asks us.

"Oh, it was really good, Dada," Malita replies.

"I learned three words today," I proclaim to the adults in the house.

"Oh that's lovely," Uncle Chandon responds. "What words were they?"

"Impression, revel, and dissemination."

"That's really cool," he replies. "What words did the rest of you guys learn?"

We excitedly tell them of all the things that we learned. We're children. We might be poor, but we are children. And that means that we enjoy learning. It means that we enjoy time spent with our family. The universe knows that we don't get that much time to spend with them. And though there is so much they can't protect us from, our adults give us chances to take at least a little bit of childhood from the hard, cruel world that we live in.

"Hi, everyone," Daddy calls out as he enters through the door. Little Salki is in his arms, blowing raspberries.

"Give me the baby!" Calliden declares. "I want to hug her!"

"Sorry, buddy, the baby needs to drink milk," Daddy apologizes as he hands the baby to my mother. "You'll get a chance to hold her in a bit."

———

I'm with my Daddy and my one year old sister Salki. We are in Frey's hut, along with a bunch of other people. It's night time, and the candles on the window sill illuminate everyone's faces in a soft fuzzy glow. It's beautiful. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone is hungry, everyone is tired, and everyone is beautiful. Just as they always are. It's terrible and it's wonderful both at the same time and all I can do is live in it, all I can do is experience it.

"Gods, I'm so tired," Alimi, who is a year older than me, exclaims. "I hate going to work. You guys better tell me I'll get used to it." I know exactly how she feels. I hate working too. I'd much rather learn words and spelling. I'd much rather tell and listen to stories. I'd much rather play outside with my friends. I'd much rather cuddle with my family. The list of things I would much rather do is endless. But we both have to work, almost everyone has to work.

"I'm sorry, child," Daddy tells her. "You won't get used to it. But hey, it will end one day."

"Is death the only thing I have to look forwards to?" she asks exasperatedly.

"Well you can find small joys in life too," Dialla explains, wisdom in her worn out voice. "You can find joy in all the small moments you have with your people. You can find it in all the strength and the love that we share. You can find it in the way that love connects all of us."

"That's beautiful," Clay begins, their voice both smooth and gravelly at the same time.

"There's so much beauty all around us, despite there being so much ugliness all around us. There is beauty all around us that the overclass will never ever be able to experience."

"It's still not fair though," I speak out. "It's not fair that we have to deal with all of this, that we will have to deal with all of this for all of our lives." By all of this I mean the hunger, I mean the sickness, I mean the cold and the heat. By all of this I mean the work that never ends and drains everything from you. By all of this I mean the ever present grief.

"I know," Frey tells me, tells all of us. "All of this is too hard to deal with. But there will be no hardships in the life after this life. There will only be love. And love is still something we have now. For the sake of the world, for the sake of everyone, we have to hold on. So that our people survive. So that we can create a better future."

"Hi!" my sister cries out to me, joy and hunger both in her voice. Her eyes are more world-weary than any child's eyes should be, but she loves playing.

"Hi!" I call back at her. She giggles. We play together for a bit, and it does so much to heal my heart, it does so much to soothe my soul. But it breaks me at the same time. It breaks me because I know that there is no hope for her. After a few minutes she goes to play with Alimi.

"There are many ways we can help each other, even if we don't have any resources or power," Alive is explaining. "There are many ways we can take back our power. And giving each other love, giving each other strength, that's one way that we can do this."

"You guys give me lots of strength," I acknowledge to the people around me. "When I'm here with you, when I'm here with any of you, it feels as though I'm somewhere where, you know, even if it's not safe, my soul is safe. And you all heal me."

"Aww, thanks," Dialla coos. "I feel the same way about you, about everyone as well."

"Work and everything takes so much from us," Clay starts. "And this sense of hopelessness, this sense that this is all that there is in the world, that takes so much from us as well. But sitting here with everyone, it just, it just lights a fire in my soul that not even the strongest of storms will ever be able to put out."

"Absolutely," Alimi agrees. "We always love each other. And no matter how much apathy the overclass has for us, no matter how much the overclass doesn't see us as people, they just see us as things to be used, we can still know that we are people, we can know that we see each other as people."

"We can always remember that we deserve so much more that what they give us," Frey adds. "We can always remember that we are so much more than they think we are. We are infinite, each and every one of us. We are all beyond infinite, and we all hold the entire universe inside of ourselves. We all hold the entire universe inside of ourselves and we all hold each other inside of ourselves. And nothing in the universe can take that away."

"There's so much more than what the overclass thinks there is," Daddy begins. "There is so much that only our people are able to access. And no matter how much more they have than us, in all the ways that matter, we have so much more than them. We have access to things that are far deeper, far more beautiful and ancient and inherent than they'll ever be able to find, no matter how much they try to find it, no matter how much they try to have what we have."

"It seems hopeless at times," Alive concedes, states, acknowledges, declares. "It seems so very hopeless. But we have to remember that what we have is so much more than what they think we have. We have to remember that what we have is so much more than what they let us have. And we have to remember that for future generations and for the sake of the whole world, we have to keep holding on to hope. Because there is hope. And we always have to remember that there is hope no matter what. We deserve more and our kids deserve more and the future generations will have more, they absolutely will. They will inherit a better world and there is absolutely nothing that the overclass can do to stop this from happening."

"So what does that mean?" Alimi asks.

"It means that our lives are not for nothing," Dialla answers. "It means that our lives are for the future generations. It means that our lives are for holding on to hope and holding on to love and loving each other and making sure our people survive. And our lives are for laying the groundwork for revolution, which will definitely happen some day."

"We're stronger than anything and everything," I declare. "We're strong because we all have each other, and that means that we all have each other's strength. And the strength of so many people put together will win in the end, it has to."

"Yay!" Little Salki proclaims, lifting her arms up to the sky.

"Yay!" Dialla echoes. "You're so sweet! Little Salki is so sweet!" There is joy in both of the two ladies' eyes, despite everything else that there also is.

———

The children in front of me are broken. They are absolutely broken. But they are beautiful. They are absolutely beautiful. I am with my Mama and my new baby brother. He's sweet. They are with their moms as well, but part of them is somewhere else, I can see it in their eyes. Their eyes are absolutely haunted.

"Would it help you girls to talk about it?" Alaci asks, her eyes darkened by concern, and by horror.

"I don't know," Calli starts. She's haunted. But I've never seen her as anything else.

"You know what happened," Vali starts, "we've been through it before, so many times before." And isn't that the truth? These girls are what, nine years old, and they've had to live in the houses of the overclass and be their servants for months at a time, time and time again going on for years now. It's horrible and horrifying and not right, but it is what it is. We have to do whatever we can to put food on the table.

"But still," Vali's mom Calix starts, "you guys just got back. It might help to unload some of the emotions. If you want to, that is."

"It's just, the worst thing, the worst thing isn't even the work. Well, it is, but the worst thing is missing our families."

"That's understandable," my mom says. "You girls need your families. You deserve your families."

"But that's part of what's so twisted about this whole thing," Vali starts. "When we're there, they are our families. They're not our families, and they certainly don't think that they are, but they are our families nonetheless." There is the quiet burning of rage behind her voice and for that I am so very grateful. She deserves to feel rage.

"They ARE," Callie moans despondently. "Because the overclass adults, they're the main adults in our lives, the main adults around us, for months and months and they are the only people we have to lean on and rely on for so long."

"And we can't even lean on and rely on them," Vali adds.

"That's horrific." Callie's mom Amaki does not have any lightness behind her voice. It's all deep, heavy devastation. And I understand. I understand why she's so devastated.

"We can't rely on them, but they're the only ones we have to rely on, they're the only ones there." Vali's voice is wracked.

"I understand," my mother starts. "You guys are children. And, as children, you need adults around you. You need adults to be your parents. And the adults that are around you, the adults that are near you, well, they fill that role. Whether they want to or not, whether you want them to or not, they fill that roll."

"I hate being a child," Vali states ruefully.

"Well," Alaci starts, "you guys are children. And you deserve to be treated well, you deserve to be protected, you deserve to be treated like children."

"I know it's hard," I start, "and neither of you guys deserved any of that. Nobody deserves any of that. But maybe it would help a little bit to remember that you guys are loved, you guys are loved so much, by all of us back here in the slums. We love you and we think about you and we miss you. We miss you so much. And your parents miss you so much. I'm sure they miss you just as much as you miss them. And we are thinking about you and hurting for you always. We are connected to you always, and you love us just as we love you, and that love is powerful enough to break all bonds."

"It hasn't broken any bonds yet." Calli replies. "We still need food. We still need water. We still need clothes. And that keeps us here, it keeps us here, it keeps us here in bondage and there's nothing we can do about it. There's no way to break free from it. Not in our lifetimes at least."

"I know. I know. But it will." My words carry a soft, tender surety. "We will get our day of judgement. We will get our revenge. And more importantly, we will get our freedom. We have to. I feel it so very deeply in my soul. And I'm sure you feel it so very deeply in your souls as well."

"It does help," Callie admits, "thinking of all of you guys and the love you have. But that doesn't change the fact that it's lonely, it's incredibly lonely. There are people all around. There are people everywhere. Yet none of the people actually care about us. It's incredibly lonely anyways."

"I know, that's too much for anyone to deal with," Calix replies. "It's far too much for a child to deal with."

Alaci passes my baby brother to me, and I put him on my lap, one hand supporting his back.

"Exami is right," Alaci starts. "No matter how unloved anyone feels, and no matter how abused anyone is, they always have a community here in the slums. There are always people who love you no matter what."

"But I understand if it hurts," Mama adds. "Because of course it hurts."

"It hurts now," I begin, "but one day we're all going to be free of all of our hurting. Every single one of us."

"Yet despite all of that, it's still not fair," Vali declares.

"You're so, so right," Amaki tells her, tells us all. "You guys don't deserve this suffering. Absolutely nobody does. Absolutely nobody deserves to go through any of what you guys went through, what you guys went through for years. Actually, absolutely no one deserves to go through what any of us went through. What any of us have gone through for years and are still going through and what we'll go through for years."

"That's the way of this world," Calix acknowledges sadly. "The innocent suffer. One day we will create a world where no-one suffers."

We all look at each other and there is a hint of smiling in all of our eyes. A hint of deep darkness and a hint of shining brightness. We will survive. We always do. Even when we die. I know that much. And these sweet girls do too.

———

Calli and Vali are here. So are a bunch of other people. It's the weekend. Well, Sunday at least. and that means I don't have to go to work. None of us have to work. Technically this holiday is a side effect of the overclass needing a day off and not being able to walk around telling us what to do. But it's really really treasured nonetheless. It's a rare day when we get to spend all of our time with each other.

"So let's tell a story!" Amoni speaks brightly. We all agree. We all love stories. They make us stronger.

"I thought of a story, once, when I was at the house of my masters," Vali begins.

"Ooh, how does it go?" I ask.

"Well, there was Emperoress Zayladon, and I'm sure you all know her." Of course we do. She's the antagonist in so many stories. She's incredibly wicked, but no more wicked than most of the overclass.

"What did she do?" Baylen asks, his dark, curly hair shining in the sunlight that is getting through the cracks in the windows.

"Well, she realized that the people were rebelling against her in their souls, in the secret parts of them that no-one could see. And she knew that if they rebelled against her in their souls, that would take away power from her. So, she set out to weaken their souls. She did this by taking away their food, so that their souls would get weaker and weaker. But instead of getting weaker, all the souls of the people only got stronger, until they broke free from the bonds of their bodies and likewise broke free of the Emperoress's power over them."

We are all quiet for a short while, taking the story in.

"Wow, that was really powerful," Girall speaks. They sound awestruck.

"It really was," Deanna echoes.

"So who else has a story?" Hewitt asks the gathered small crowd.

"I can tell one," five-year old Marci exclaims.

"Ooh, what is it?" Deanna asks.

"Well, there was a little chicken. And the chicken was sad. It lost its mother. It didn't know where to go. There was a mean fox that was trying to eat the chicken. But the baby chicken ran into a hollow tree to hide. The mean fox could not get the chicken. And the mother was searching for her baby. She searched and she searched. And she saw the mean fox. She knew she had to fight him. And so she gathered all her courage. And she gave that fox a big peck! The fox was so scared, it ran away. And the baby chicken cheered from their hiding place. And the mother heard the cheer and found them! And then they were together again, and safe."

We also all take a moment to take in this story. It is as beautiful as the last. All stories are so incredibly beautiful. I wish I lived in a world where everything was a story. Though I guess I do. It's just that the story of real life hasn't gotten to the good parts yet.

"That was really cool," Amoni tells the little girl.

"Yes, it really, really was," I agree.

"So, it's your turn to tell a story," Baylen tell me. "If you want to of course."

"Of course I want to," I tell him. I tell them all. "So, there are three sisters. And they have a father. The father has a wishing rock. Before he passes away, he tells the girls to give the wishing rock to the community and teach the people how to use it. But each sister gets jealous, and wants to keep the wishing rock for themselves. So they all fight about who gets to have it. But as they are fighting each other, they do not notice a bird swooping down to the rock and taking it away."

I sit in the silence my story created.

"Wow, that was very amazing," Girall states.

"Now can Calli tell a story?" Marcia asks.

"Sure," Calli replies. "I can do that. Just give me a moment to think." We are all silent for a few moments as Calli comes up with something.

"So there was a wicked king," Calli replies, "and the wicked king had captured a young woman and kept her locked in his castle so that he could do bad things to her. But the Forest Spirits heard the prayer of the girl, and they sent out a brave warrior to save her. This warrior was an outlaw, and she had been training to fight the king all her life, ever since he killed her parents when she was a young child. She used the help and guidance of the Forest Spirits, and hid invisible in a tree. From there, she shot an arrow at the wicked king, killing him. She freed the other girl, and eventually they fell in love and got married."

"That's absolutely beautiful," Hewitt speaks. "All of your stories were absolutely beautiful. And I'm so glad that you all got to tell them."

"Thanks so much." Calli smiles as she says this.

"Yeah, thank you," Marcia sing-songs.

"Just telling the truth," Hewitt presses.

"So do you guys want to hear some stories from the grown-ups now?" Amoni asks. We all call out a yes in an imperfect yet harmonious unison.

We listen to a few stories that the adults tell us. And then we discuss the meanings of the stories amongst ourselves. We discuss the meanings of all the stories, the ones the kids told and the ones that the adults told. There is so much to discuss. So much depth to all the tales, so much meaning behind them despite the fact that they're so simple. It's beautiful, and a tiny part of me could almost be fooled into believing that things are okay. Just a tiny part though. The overwhelming majority of me is still hungry and tired in so, so many different ways.

———

I am walking to work, like I have been almost every day for four years now. Like everyone over the age of six is. Well, technically I'm walking to the bus stop. There are so very many different bus routes that I have to take to get to work. It depends where I slept the last night and where I woke up in the morning. I mean I usually sleep at my house. But not always.

I stay with the crowd, the masses of people with dead eyes, all trudging towards the places that will consume them for the next eleven hours, the places that will chew us to a pulp and then chew us more, that will suck on our sweat and our blood and our souls until we are left as empty as ghosts, trudging hollow-eyed back to the slums that will breathe life into us.

I notice something strange on the ground. I know I have some time before I have to catch the bus, so I slowly make my way to the side of the road to pick it up. It's a smallish rectangle with shiny, smooth leather on the front and back. It looks like a book. I open it up and flip through the pages. So it is a book. That's interesting.

I wonder if I should take it with me or leave it there. It's something that belongs to the overclass. It's something that the overclass owns. And I want it. I want it so badly. Not because I want to know about their lives and their world. I already know all that I need to know about them, which is that they could not care less about us. But still, I want to have something that's theirs. I want to taste a part of their lives. It sounds very interesting. And more than that, far more than that, it sounds rebellious.

The book is not large enough to fit in my pocket. So I hide it under a pile of trash, and I make a mental note of where I put it. I have to get to work. Even though my hands stink right now, I have to get to work. Because without work there is no money and without money there is no food. Or, even less food than we had before.

I take a deep breath and brace myself for everything that is coming after this. I have to provide for my community. Though I'm only ten, I have to provide for my community. We always have to. We always have done. We don't have the time to be children, we never did. I can't let my trepidation stop me. I can't let my dread stop me. I have to do what I have to do, no matter what I want myself.

"What we're you doing back there?" a man with haunted eyes asks me.

"Oh, I just found a book," I tell him. "That's something that the overclass people own. They put lots of words in them."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the concept. Why did you hide it in a trash pile?"

"Because, I intend to get it on my way back from work. I'll bring it home."

"That's an act of thievery. It's risky."

"I know it's risky. But I just really want to take something from the overclass. I want to have something that they don't want me to have."

"You better be careful to not get caught." There is deep concern in his dark eyes. There is worry etched over his face.

"I won't get caught. I didn't steal it out of someone's house or someone's pocket. It was just lying by the side of the road. Someone carelessly dropped it. It won't be missed."

"Even if someone did drop it," the man cautions, "they might come back to look for it later. They might see that it was stolen. And that would put you in danger."

"They would have no idea it was me," I retort. "There are hundreds of people walking down this street. It could be any one of them. I really don't think anyone would spend that much time and effort trying to locate a single book. Not when the overclass could easily buy another one."

"That's true, but you have got to be careful. You have got to make sure that no guards ever see you with the book."

"I will be careful, don't worry."

"Hopefully this all works out for the best."

"Yes, hopefully."

"So what do you think might be in the book?" A person with dark eyelashes asks me.

"I don't know," I reply, "it could be anything."

"What are you hoping it is?" they ask.

"I hope it's a book about science. Science is very interesting, and I wish I knew more about it."

"I wish I knew more about it too," they reply, "there is a lot of knowledge that the overclass keeps to themselves, and that's not fair."

"But all the important knowledge belongs to us," I add in, "all the ultimate truths, the deep wisdoms, and the truth about love, it all belongs to us."

"You're absolutely right, child. All the important knowledge belongs to us. And no matter what, we will keep holding it. And the overclass will never have even a taste of our knowledge. Not with their greedy, greedy hearts and their hardened souls."

"That's so right. They think they know a lot but they don't even know what pain is."

"That's so right. Good luck with your book. I sincerely hope that you don't get caught."

"I won't, I promise." This promise feels like a lie in my mouth. Like a dark and heavy lie. I don't know why, though. I know how important it is to be careful with this book. I know how important it is to make sure that the overclass never finds me with it, never suspects that I have it. So why have I found myself not able to make this promise?

"Child, just please be careful." Their voice is filled with doubt and suspicion and deep, deep, incredibly deep concern.

———

I am sitting beside the candle on the floor. Beside me the house is crowded with my family and my roommates. They are talking quietly in the nighttime, a nighttime that is too cold, that is always too cold no matter what. It warms me, the sound of their quiet, secretive voices filled with love and compassion and concern. It fills me with so much warmth, but still my body is cold. Still my body is cold and that is such violence.

I am not joined in to the conversation today. I want to be, but I'm not. Because my curiosity is eating me alive. I need to know what is in this book. So, instead of talking to my family, I am pouring over the pages, making out each word with great effort.

It's a book of stories. That much became clear when I read the first few pages. It's a book of stories, but a book of stories according to the overclass. A book of the stories that the overclass wanted to share with each other. Which means that these stories are not the same as our stories, but they are stories nonetheless, and it feels very rebellious of me to be able to read it.

It is disappointing that this is not a book of science. I would have loved to learn about science. My people already have stories. We don't have that much science. But still, getting to have something that the overclass doesn't want us to have is still and act of rebellion. It is still an act of revenge, however small.

I turn the page. I turn onto a new story.

"There was at the time, an evil empire stretching across the lands," the book states, "an empire which was evil because it did not follow the commands of the Great Ruler." These first lines are interesting enough, but there seems to be a heaviness behind them. There seems to be a poison behind them. Yet there seems to be clear, fast-flowing water behind them too. "The Great Ruler had set down rules for the people," the book continues, "but the people of the empire ignored those rules. Thus them being rulers of the world was a horrible thing.

"The empire had many people who they held as slaves. Because they did not follow the Great Ruler, it was tragic that they held these people as slaves. What was even more tragic though was that the people who the empire enslaved were the people who followed the Great Ruler. They were the people who glorified and upraised the Great Ruler.

"And these people, they had to do much hard labour. Labour that numbed their minds. Labour that crushed their spirits. Most of their days were filled with the constant demands of the empire.

"Now, the emperor had a daughter. That daughter was the child of the enslaved people, she was born from them. But also, this daughter had been raised in the palace, raised with the emperor as her father and her ruler and her head. She was an exceptionally pure soul, though she did harbour hatred inside her heart. The Great Ruler saw her and within her He saw His plan coming into formation.

"The Great Ruler followed the teenaged girl when she went to market to pick up clothes and goods for the royal family. He stopped her, and He told her that she had a special mission. A mission to talk to the emperor and ask him to free the slaves. If he refused, the Great Ruler told the girl, then she would have to lead the fight against them.

"The girl said that she was nothing compared to the power and the glory of the emperor, and he would never listen to her. The Great Ruler told her that she was pure of heart, and if the emperor didn't listen to her, he would be sorry. He then took her to meet a slave from outside the palace, and told the two of them to confront the emperor together when they could.

"The teenaged girl and the slightly older man went up to the emperor in his throne room one day, and asked him to free the slaves. The emperor asked why he, the emperor, should listen to them. The two rebels said that they had the Will of the Great Ruler on their side, and harm would befall the citizens of the empire if he did not listen to them.

"But he still did not listen, and in one breath he told them both to go back to their labours.

"The two then snuck out of the palace and back to the slave quarters under the cover of night. There they told the other slaves the news. The Great Ruler then came down to them, and gave them powerful magical weapons with which to wage war against the empire. The Great Ruler also planted the idea in the hearts of the empire's children to fight with the slaves.

"And so the slaves and the children fought against the armies of the empire together. It was a bloody, bloody battle with many casualties. But eventually they won, and the Great Ruler's people were no longer enslaved by the empire. The girl died in the war, but her legacy endures forever."

That was a nice story. Much better than what I expected to come out of the twisted corruption of the overclass. But still, there is a heavy side to it, a poisoned corruption, a grating roughness. Yet behind that roughness, there is also something better, there is also something beautiful. And this beauty and this horror both twist around each other in the story.

I like this story. But I like the stories of my own people so much more. The stories of my own people are warm, burning sunlight. They are cool, clear flowing water that soothes my bloody soul. And they are ours. They are ours so very much. They are love.

———

"I feel like I am dust, and ash, and nothing more," Rodley speaks out into the tiny clay room. He's a child. He's a servant. And as such, it makes sense for him to feel like this. No-one deserves to be a servant.

"I know," I reply, "I feel like that too. Every day during work, every day after work I feel like that. And it's absolutely unendurable."

"I'm so sorry you kids feel this way," Rosali comments. "It's horrible for anyone to feel this way, let alone children." Her dark eyes look so infinitely dark, so infinitely deep under her raven-black eyelashes. "Though I know how you feel. I know far, far too well."

"What can we do about this?" Clari, an older man, asks. "I wish so very deeply that I could take away all the pain everyone feels, that I could take away all the devastation."

"I wish that too," Lia, who is in her thirties, agrees. "I wish that so very much. But we can't take away everyone's pain. Not yet."

"But we will one day," Mama promises, looking at everyone with steadfast promise in her eyes. My two living siblings are with my Daddy right now, and my other two younger siblings are in the spirit world.

"But is it really possible?" Rodley speaks. "Can we really make things better, or is this all that exists? Is this pain all that exists? Because that's what it feels like sometimes."

"No," Rodley's dad Darlo asserts. "There is truth and purity and goodness and happiness. No matter what it feels like."

"Those things exist for the overclass, sure," Kolki states, "but do they exist for us? I'm not sure that they do."

"No," I refute. "The happiness that the overclass has is a shallow, hollow sort of happiness. True happiness is so much deeper, so much better, so much more real."

"But sometimes it feels like," Kolki starts, his dark curls shining softly like a halo, "sometimes it feels like if the overclass doesn't have true happiness, and we don't have true happiness, then who does?"

"I know it feels that way," Clari starts, "but you have to have faith. You have to have faith that true happiness exists. You feel it in the depths of your soul. I know you feel it in the depths of your soul. Even when you don't think that it's real, the true depths of you know it is."

"But how can we get rid of this feeling?" Rodley asks desperately, "this feeling that there's nothing more than this society?"

"Remember the story of the burned woman?" I ask him.

"I do," he answers.

"Perhaps we are all the burned woman. And we are all her heart. And as her heart, we have to live on. The core of who we are always lives on."

"I want to hear that story again," Rodley states. "Maybe hearing it will help me, even if it's just a little bit."

"That sounds like a great idea," my Mama agrees. "Who wants to tell it?"

"I think I could probably tell it," Rosalee speaks, "since I heard it only a few days ago."

We all talk amongst ourselves for a bit and come to the agreement that Rosalee should tell the story.

———

I am dying. I am always dying. But right now I am so drowning in poisonous, corrosive death that overcomes every part of me. Again and again and again I am dying. Each an every moment that I spend here. Each and every moment that I sit here and am forced to do this. And there's never a reprieve. There is never a single moment away from this agony. This agony that takes every part of my being, every part of my soul, and wrests it away from me.

I have to cut leather. And cut leather. And cut more and more and more leather. And it's not even real leather, it's fake leather. Fake leather to make shiny and polished shoes. Fake leather I have to cut with this insanely sharp knife so that it's exactly, perfectly right. I can't be even a nanometer off. I have to follow the pattern exactly. I have to be absolutely, perfectly right. Absolutely, perfectly perfect.

Well, I don't have to be perfect. I have to do perfect. My work has to be perfect. And that's so much worse. That's so much worse than having to be perfect. Because right now, who I am doesn't matter. Who I am doesn't matter at all. All that matters is the work that I do. All that matters is these many many pieces of fake leather. All that matters is these shoes.

And I'm not a person. I'm not a person. Not right here. Not right now. I am simply a job that has to be done. I am simply a machine that has to work properly. I am simply an instrument to cut fake leather with. And I can't stand it. My soul is being drained from me, and is being collected into pieces of soft brown. I'm not a person, and my soul is being ripped from my insides and I'm gone, I'm gone, I'm going to be gone.

I have to concentrate entirely, perfectly. I have to shred every part of my mind, shred every part of my brain, until I am honed entirely on the task in front of me. On the task in front of me and on all the misery that is being caused by the task in front of me. All the screaming, screaming misery. I feel like there are knives cutting into my mind, cutting away all the parts that make me who I am. But there's nothing I can do about it. I can't take even a moment's rest.

I am exhausted on a level that's much deeper than bone-deep. I am exhausted way past my my soul. This exhaustion runs deeper than the sea, runs deeper than the sky. And it pulls me down, pulls me down, pulls me down. But I can't let myself get pulled down. No matter what, I have to keep working. No matter what I want, no matter what I need.

I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this so very much. But I have to keep doing it and keep doing it and keep doing it. Because to stop would be to die. To stop would be to starve, to freeze, to not have any of the basic necessities that all people need. To stop would be to starve my family, to starve my community, I don't have the choice to stop. I never did.

So I have to keep going. Fast, fast, fast, fast, fast, fast, fast. Unimaginably fast. Inexpressibly fast. And it's so violent, this mind-breaking pace. It's so unbelievably violent. As if I am immersed in ice, as if I have been immersed in ice for hours on end without break. It's so violent, as if everything all around me is desperate, anguished screaming. As if everything inside me is desperate, anguished screaming. It's so desperate. It's so desperately terrible.

Again and again and again and again and again and again I have to do my same, precise movements. Again and again. And horrifically, unbearably fast each time. Precisely, entirely perfect each time. It siphons all my energy. But it siphons more than my energy. It siphons my entire personality. It siphons everything I have, everything I am.

Desperately, desperately, with everything I am, I have to keep going. This existence is not existence. This life is not living. It is one torturous, painful death after another. And yet it is the existence I have to live through, again and again and again, day after day after day after day. I am desperate, desperate enough that I have to immerse myself in this ice water until my very bones are frozen.

I wish so very desperately that I was doing something else. I wish so very desperately that I was out playing instead, or making out words in the dust of the ground. I wish I was off somewhere being myself, being a child, being free. But people like us don't get what we wish for, no matter how basic and fundamental our wishes are. For now, at least.

I am ruled by fear. We're all ruled by our fear. And fear sparks and glares and beams inside every part of me, as I struggle to keep up, as I struggle to do my work perfectly. Fear flashes through my experience, my existence, like a constant, blaring alarm. Like a whining and wailing siren, bursting my ear drums. It flows into and mixes with every other emotion that's already inside me, all my emotions melding together to create a horrific abomination that I have to be drenched in.

This is what I have to do every day. And the hours melt together. Time seems to have slowed to a crawl. These many hours feel like many lifetimes. They always do. I am so desperate for it all to be over and my desperation makes it even harder to bear, makes it take even longer for this all to be over. It's a cruel trick of reality. Incredibly cruel.

I am a ghost. I am a ghost. I am a ghost and nothing more. I am definitely not a person. Definitely not a child. I have never gotten the chance to be. I have never been allowed to be. I have only ever been allowed to be completely and utterly shattered in each and every aspect of my being. I don't have a choice. I never did. None of us ever had a choice in all of this horror. I am a ghost.

———

I am with some neighbours, some people who are neighbour's neighbours. We are trying to heal ourselves. We are trying to heal each other. We are failing, to an extent. But we are also soverign to an extent. The sun will set in an hour. It's summer and the days are long. There is still the soft brush of darkness in this room, though. Which is soft and soft-edged and comforting. Amania is telling a story.

"The Emperoress is a greedy and power-hungry being. She wanted all the wealth that the people could generate. And she sought to get it, in whatever way possible. No matter how many people she had to destroy and step on in order to get there.

"So she created two groups of people. A third of the people she set aside to be the managers. They would lord over the others and make sure that everyone else stayed in their place. They would enforce the status quo and make sure that all the wealth returned to the Emperoress. The other two thirds of the people she set aside to be slaves. They would create wealth for the Emperoress and the managers using their toil and their blood, and the Emperoress would take most of the wealth that they made, though she would give some to the managers.

"This arrangement worked quite well for her and her managers. And they grew their wealth and their abundance and their bounty rather well. The Emperoress had a great big, sprawling house. And she filled it with many, many beautiful things that she got from the work of the slaves.

"But she needed someone to clean this vast house. She thought about getting an adult slave to do it. But she decided that adult slaves were too rebellious and could not be trusted around all of her valuable items. She resolved then to take a child from among the people and raise it in her vast house, and train it to obey her and be loyal to her.

"So she took a child from the people, a little girl who missed her parents and siblings dearly. And she lorded over this child, being the main adult in her life, being the closest thing the child would now have to parents. The girl was very miserable indeed, but she did all of the work that was asked of her, for what other choice did she have?

"The child grew into a teenager. A teenager who hid all of her rebelliousness deep inside of herself. She had hatred in her heart for the Emperoress, but she also had a strange sense of love for her as well. But far more than that, she loved her own people, she loved the slaves from whose midst she was taken from.

"One day she was off getting things from the market for the Emperoress. There, she met the Great Mother. The Great Mother welcomed the broken girl into her arms. She then told the girl that she was the one who could stand against the Emperoress and free her people. The teenager told the Mother that she was no-one, compared to the Emperoress especially, she was no-one, and she could not do the task. The Mother promised her that she was so much more than she thought she was.

"The Mother then took the girl to the rest of the people. There, they all talked, and decided that a boy a few years older than the girl should go along with the girl to confront the Emperoress. All the people gave the two youths their prayers and blessings, and sigils of protection, and bade them to have a safe journey.

"They got back to the Emperoress's mansion, and they stood tall and strong in front of her throne room. There, they looked the Emperoress in the eyes and demanded that she free the people. This, of course, she did not do. She told them instead, in one breath, to go back to their work. When the people refused to do this, she called her police to come and arrest them. But the police were too afraid of the act of bravery and rebellion that the two youths had just showed and would not do this.

"And so the two went back to the people. The Great Mother went to the people and gave them weapons with which they could wage war against the managers and the Emperoress. Now that the people had weapons too, they were powerful against the managers. They outnumbered them two to one and were equally armed. They waged war, servants and industrial slaves and agricultural slaves and slaves of all kind.

"The war was brutal. It was bloody. All wars are brutal. All wars are bloody. But sometimes it is worth it, fighting for the sake of the future. Fighting so that future generations have a better life than us, so that they do not have to go through the same hardships and the same heartbreak that we have to go through. Safeguarding the future takes sacrifice, but it was sacrifice that the people were ready to make, that they wanted to make. After all, the Emperoress needed very badly to be stood up to, to be deposed. And so the people fought in the war.

"They won. And they became free. But this victory over the Emperoress has not happened yet. It will happen at some point on the future, in a time untold."

I have known this story since I was young. But hearing it now, like this, with the knowledge of the other story I have read in the book I stole, everything clicks into place. It's like a light has been turned on in my head. There are too many parallels. Far too many parallels for it to merely be a coincidence. This has to mean something. Not something grand. Not something amazing. Not something groundbreaking or revolutionary or liberating. But something nonetheless. And I have to look through the book once again, and I have to remember the stories I've heard over the years. Because they just might have some very interesting parallels to them.

———

I am sitting on the floor, next to a candle that burns away precious, precious wick, the wax collecting in the metal bowl underneath it. My family is asleep. I should be asleep too. I don't have work tomorrow, thank the Mother, but I shouldn't mess up my sleep schedule anyways. But I can't put this book down right now.

I can't put this book down, not because there's anything profound in this book, not because the contents I am reading are so great, but rather because there are so many parallels. This book is leaving so much out, so much out. But it is telling stories that my people have been telling each other for centuries. It doesn't cover all the stories. It doesn't cover nearly all the stories that we have. It's a drop in the ocean. But still. It's clearly some sort of bastardization of an ancient source.

The story that I am reading right now is about a woman who got enslaved by an evil emperor. She learned magic over the years, and used that magic to curse the emperor. The emperor got very sick. That is when she went to the emperor and declared that she would only lift the curse if he gave her all of his wealth and all of his slaves. Fearing for his life, the emperor obliged. The woman then gained great wealth and a great many slaves, and she lived a life of luxury.

This is obviously a very disturbing story. It is horrific how someone who has been enslaved themselves can just turn around and own slaves. It's horrific, and it's not realistic. I know what it's like to be exploited. I know that so very well. And because I know what it's like to be exploited, I want so very much to make sure that no-one is exploited ever again. And besides not being realistic, it's not inspiring. Like, what are we learning here? That if you break free from abuse you'll just turn around and become an abuser. That's horrible.

But despite the disturbingness of this story, it calls my mind to a different story, a better story, one that my community has been telling each other for many years. There was a woman who got enslaved by the Emperoress, and she was very abused, along with the other slaves. But she received visions from the Great Mother, who taught her how to do magic.

She used this magic to curse the Emperoress. She proclaimed that she would only lift the curse if the Emperoress freed all her slaves and handed over her wealth to the freed slaves. Fearing for her life, the powerful figure did this. All the slaves travelled away from the Emperoress together, and they became a community, who all helped each other and thrived in prosperity from then on.

It is easy to see how the two stories are similar, and I think that their story might have come from our stories.

The next story in the book is about a teenaged boy who got kicked out of his home. He was living in the streets for many months, begging people for money since he was too young to legally have a job - which sounds like a great law to me, I'd love to have some semblance of a childhood. But anyways, he was going around asking people for food one day. Most people denied him, but one kind woman gave him food and took him in to be her son. He was very grateful for her help. They decided together to burn down the houses of everyone who denied the boy help.

This story is a lot better, a lot kinder, a lot more satisfying. I like the message that it sends. And yet, I don't think it does enough to clarify what exactly that message is. The text is worded as if the problem in this story, the main antagonist, is the child labour laws and not the inhospitality of the people. It makes it seem that if this child was allowed to work, everything would be okay. Which is not true at all. Children should not work, they should have childhoods.

But once again, it brings up a story that I remember from my community. This is the story of two children, who were thirteen, they were kicked out by their parents and had to make their own way in the world. Their parents had abused them, so it was almost a blessing that they got kicked out. They tried very hard to find a job, but they could not find one. They also tried to find a place to stay, asking everyone if they could stay with them. Everyone said no, but one kind lady said yes and took the siblings in. The new family discussed how cruel the other citizens had been. The mother was so disturbed that she burned the houses down of everyone who had denied her children shelter. This caused the family to have to flee the city, but they made a new life out in the countryside.

The next story is about a handsome young man, who was chosen by the Great Ruler to carry His message and teach the new generations the rules they were meant to follow. The Great Ruler gave him a special box, and told him that great treasures lay within the box but he was only to open it when the Ruler said. The man waited by the side of the road with his box for many hours, but then he saw a very beautiful woman walking down the road. He was so charmed by her beauty that he just had to impress her. He just had to impress her, so he went up to her and opened the box, showing her the treasures that lay within. The two then got married and lived a happy, wealthy life.

What? So, the man literally just disobeyed the Great Ruler, the being who these stories hold as so special and so treasured, and this act was not condemned? This doesn't even make sense within the context of the stories in this book.

Well, anyways, the version of the story that my people tell makes more sense. There once was a lecherous and self-important man, who was held up by the community as a great figure. The Great Mother wanted to knock him down a peg, so she gave him a promise. She told him that she would give him great knowledge, but only if he waited for her to tell him when to open the box. She gave him a golden box which was very heavy, and told him to wait. So he did wait. That was, until he saw a beautiful woman coming down the street. He wanted to impress the woman, so he could lay with her. He thought there must be treasure within the box, and opened the box to show the woman the treasure inside. She did lay with him, and he was happy. But then the Great Mother came to him and told him that he was not worthy of receiving the ultimate knowledge.

This story at least saw the man get what was coming to him.

Then, there is another story in the book. This one reminds me of one of the first stories I ever heard. The book details how there was once a golden age where all people listened to the Great Ruler and consulted him before making any decisions. But there was one man who decided that he could make decisions for himself, and didn't need to rely on the Great Ruler. He convinced the other people of this, and they started making decisions without consulting the Great Ruler. He got wind of this, and got very enraged indeed. He cursed the people to suffer for many generations.

And this story is immensely horrible. Why is their Great Ruler - who is a clear parallel to our Great Mother - such a tyrant?

But still, there's a parallel story for this one too.

As we all know, all people are part of the Great Mother and all people can feel the Great Mother in their hearts. For the good people of this world, they always feel the Great Mother in their hearts, and they realize that everything they do should be guided by the Mother, guided by their hearts, guided by their community of all the people, and guided by all that is good and right. But there was one man, who saw the wealth of the land and wanted to have it for himself. He knew that this was not good and right, he knew that the Mother would not want this, but he didn't care. So he made a devious plan. He convinced the people that they did not have to listen to the voice of the Mother in their hearts, they didn't have to listen to the sense of justice in their souls. The people eventually became convinced of this, and allowed the man to take the wealth of the land, and the man grew very happy indeed. But the people were cursed, because far too many people had let evil forces into their souls. That is why there are so many evil people in the world to this day.

------

It is a Sunday. I am reading, by the window. I am immersed in this book. Because, it proves that the overclass once knew of our stories. Well, a few of them at least. If they once knew of our stories, that means that maybe, just maybe they can be reminded and maybe, just maybe they can be saved. I know, I know this is most likely a useless dream. But still, one can hope after all. And this is giving me a strange sense of hope.

I am by the window because I need light in order to read. But I make sure that I do not get too close to the window, as that would be incredibly dangerous. We don't want any guards coming upon me while I am doing this. But still, I need the light and I trust myself to stay careful.

My mind is whirring fast, whirring gloriously, trying to find every single word and line that ties these stories into our stories, that hints at something more. And there are many hints. All over this whole book, there are many hints. They are just hidden, somewhat. You just have to know what to look for in order to bring them to the light.

"What are you doing?!" A rough voice barks at me. I startle, my heart skipping two beats. I look up, and am met with the hard eyes of a guard in his distinguished uniform. This is not good. This is not good at all.

"I'm just ... I'm just looking at these strange symbols in this thing," I lie, hoping he buys it.

"Nonsense. I've watched you for a while now. You're reading." Oh Mother. I guess I was being more careless than I thought. What do I do to get out of this now?

"So what if I am reading?" I look him square in the eyes, hiding my absolute terror. "Who does that hurt?"

"Where did you learn how to read?" he asks me.

"I won't tell you." I have to keep my Mama a secret. I have to make sure they don't hurt her.

"People like you shouldn't be reading. You have work to do." His voice is rock hard and filled with hatred and disgust.

"It's Sunday. I don't have to work today," I riposte back at him. "It's my day off and I can do what I want."

"That doesn't mean you can read," he barks back at me, hatred in his eyes. Talking back to him is truly wonderful, in a strange way. Yes, I know I'm probably digging my grave. And yes, I am scared, so very scared. But at the same time this is incredibly intoxicating, incredibly empowering, to stand in front of a guard, a member of the overclass, who could easily kill me, and pretend that I have no fear.

"Why not?" I demand to him, my voice hard with determination and full with a sense of love that never leaves me.

"Because, you beast, you won't understand what's written. Books are complicated. They are hard to understand. And, if you don't understand them, that's very dangerous, because you will come to all the wrong conclusions."

"It seems that you guys are the ones who don't understand these stories," I counter back at him, putting on a brave face. "It's clear that this book is completely wasted on the likes of you."

"What do you mean by that, you vermin!" the guard demands. "You better rein in your tongue before it gets you into more trouble!"

"These stories," I begin calmly, "the stories in this book, most of them would teach people to be kind towards other people. But your people are not kind. Your people are exploitative and greedy and cruel. And if you understood this book, you would not be." I let my voice flow smooth and clear.

"You absolute vermin!" The guard shouts. "You have a lot of nerve. You have a lot of nerve! What? What's in this book that you are so entranced by?"

"Just stories," I reply, "stories that you and your people clearly don't understand at all."

"Give me the book. I have to look at it."

"I won't hand it over. It's mine."

"It's yours?!" His voice is incredulous. "Like hell it's yours. You probably stole it. Who in their right mind would give you a book?!"

"I found it on a pile of garbage," I lie. "Clearly it had been thrown out by whoever had it last. And so I took it with me. And now it's mine."

"What book is it?" He is growing more and more frustrated by the second, I can tell. He's definitely not used to a person from the underclass talking back to him. I don't know why I'm talking back to him, but there is this strange sense of bravery that has overcome me. I still feel fear, I definitely do. I still know that I'm digging my own grave. But at the moment, for some strange reason, I don't care.

"It's called the compendium of life," I tell him, "and I understand it perfectly fine."

"Like hell you do. Who could have thrown away a copy of the Compedium of Life? You've got your hands on a very powerful book, you brat. You've got your hands on a book the likes of which you and your people will never understand."

"You're wrong."

"I'll prove it to you. Come to the House of Life and you can talk to the great scholars. When you talk to them, you'll see how little you understand and how much they understand."

"Bring it on."

I clutch the book hard in my hands as I follow him, of my own accord, out the door and down the broken, dusty street. We get into his car and the door locks, keeping me in. I'm in the back of the car, where there are no seats, just a metal floor that I have to sit on. It's dirty, and there is tough plastic separating the back where I'm sitting from the front where the guard is sitting. The seat he is on looks very soft. I hold my anger inside.

The car speeds to life. And I feel as though I am leaving everything in my life behind. But I also feel as though I am taking a stand for my people. I pray to the Great Mother for her strength and her guidance, and she envelops me in her soft embrace, filling me up with a sense of war-addled peace. Whatever is coming next, I can take it. I have to take it, even if I can't.

———

We dive past the slums that form all that I know. We drive away from the industrial belt that houses all the factories and plants and refineries that tower over my people's lives. We drive into a strange place, a place with paved roads, and large houses, and large yards with green grass and beautiful flowers and metal fences. This is so much stranger than anything I have ever witnessed before. I knew that the overclass lived like this, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. It's beautiful. And it is so, so deeply disturbing.

We drive over the paved roads and stop at the gates of a tall and strange building. It is far larger than any of the buildings I have seen before. And there are all sorts of shapes and patterns jutting out all over the building, as well as the figures of what seems to be angels, dressed in ostentatious and grand clothes that angels do not really wear. There is colourful glass on the windows. The whole structure is almost too much to take in at once. Though I can tell that it's a very important structure to the eyes of the overclass. That must be why they made it so grand.

"Come on," the guard barks at me, opening the door and grabbing my wrist. He drags me out of the police vehicle and he drags me up the large stone steps to the building. There are many of these steps and the guard is going so fast that I stumble a few times. Yet, I manage to make it up the steps and then I am shoved inside the large, carved wooden doors.

Inside the building is almost more grand. Paintings of different scenes adorn different walls. The walls themselves have many shapes and lines carved into them, and there are marble statues everywhere. There are many benches made of polished wood, with carved sides and metal trimmings. The floor is coloured in an intricate pattern. The light comes in in many different colours from the many different colours on the windows. It is amazing, the look of this place. It is amazing. Yet it is deeply disturbing. I have never been somewhere so grand in my life.

I ask the Great Mother for help.

We are lead through the rows of chairs and up the steps to a small door at the back. This door leads to a large library, with rows and rows and rows of immaculate, polished shelves that are spaced out and filled with books of all sorts. There are many desks here, large and carved ornately and polished to a shine, with plush chairs lining them. There are large windows that let in a lot of natural light, as well as artificial lights on the ceiling.

There are many people here, pouring over thick books with intensity. It's bizarre, yet I know that there are members of the overclass who spend all their time reading since they do not have to work. At the opening of the door, some of their eyes turn to me.

"What's going on here?" An old man asks.

"This young, uneducated girl thought that she could read and understand the Compedium of Life."

"I'm not a girl!" I protest. The overclass often gets this thing about me wrong.

"Of course you are!" the guard barks. "Look at you!"

"He is right," the old man begins. "The Great Ruler gives us our bodies and this gives us our genders, we have to be appreciative of His Will."

"I don't care about your Ruler," I spit back. I know I am dead. I know that no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I'm dead. I've gone too far and done too much to be saved at this point. But still, it causes a stone of dread to sink in my stomach to be so rebellious against the overclass. It causes my chest to squeeze in anxiety.

"Then why are you reading our Book?" a middle aged woman asks. "This Book is the Ruler's Will and His words."

"You all do not know the will of the Ruler. You merely think you do." I am talking right now of course about the Mother, who the Ruler seems to be a parallel for.

"How impudent of you!" another old man exclaims. "You know nothing at all, you can barely even read, you haven't any knowledge of what came before, and you claim to know the Will of the Ruler? Absurd!"

"Want a bet?" I demand. It feels good, being able to talk to the overclass as if they are equals. It feels good, to be able to say the things I have always longed to say to them. It feels good, feels empowering, feels freeing and thrilling, just as much as it feels abjectly terrifying. And, in a way, I am appreciative of the fact that I am already dead, because that means that I can go out with a bang. And I fully intend to go out with a bang.

"I challenge you to interpret one single story from the Book," a younger woman demands, "and we can see if you have interpreted it correctly."

"Alright," I counter. "I will."

"Do the story of the emperor's daughter. That is a very fundamental story that explains our world in perfect detail. You will not be able to understand it." These words are spoken by a middle aged man.

"You are clearly not able to understand it," I retort back, "because if you could, then you would not be holding our people as slaves."

"You are not slaves," the middle aged man replies, "and even if you were, it is alright for good and just people who follow the Will of the Ruler to own slaves."

"If anyone owns slaves," I respond, "then that makes them not good and just, that makes them inherently not follow the Will of the Ruler. And we are slaves, for we have to make great, great sacrifices to work for you under the threat of death."

"Following the Will of the Ruler is all that is necessary to be good and just," the first old man states.

"The true Will of the Ruler is for all people to be equal," I counter.

"We have studied many texts about the Ruler and His will for all of our lives," the middle aged woman declares. "How could you possibly know what His Will is?"

"I have lived amongst my community for all of my life," I riposte, "and down in the slums we know. We feel the Ruler in our hearts, in every breath we take and every thought or feeling we have. He is in our lives, and He is our lives, and He is our strength and our love, and we know Him."

"Uneducated swine," the second old man comments.

"Anyways, the story is that a young girl was held as a servant by the emperor, who was the adult in her life. He kept the rest of her people as slaves as well. But the Great Ruler came to the girl and told her to stand against the emperor. This she did do, along with another slave. Yet the emperor did not budge, and so the slaves had to wage war and they were successful."

"You fundamentally misunderstand the story!" the young woman exclaims. "the princess was not a mere servant, she was a princess with a lofty education and much power! This is why she was able to stand up to the emperor and lead the other, uneducated, illiterate slaves in war. It says clearly in the story that she was a daughter of the emperor."

"Was she a princess though?" I respond. "There are other ways of being the emperor's child, without being royalty."

"How, you stupid child?" the middle aged woman asks me.

"Because," I respond, "first of all, we are all each other's children. Secondly, when you are a child and someone else is the main adult around you, they are the main adult who is there and who exists in your life, you become their child. You become their child because they are the ones here and available to you, and you, as a child, latch onto them and see them as your parent. Even if they abuse you, even if they mistreat you, even if they hate you so much, if they are the main adult around you, then you will latch onto them and see them as like a parent. And thus you become their child, even if you are an abused child."

"What proof do you have for these heretical and unfounded thoughts?" the middle-aged man asks.

"The servants who go to your houses, the children who you use to do all your domestic labour, they are isolated from their real families and you and your people are the only adults around them. They cannot help but see you as their parents, they cannot help but latch onto you. Even though you guys abuse and mistreat them horribly. Because they are children and you are there. And by them being children and you being there, they become your children. For we were all meant to be each other's children."

"That is absurd, and it doesn't make any sense," the second old man spits out at me.

"You would never understand it unless you felt it," I reply.

"There is no proof of what you claim," the middle aged woman tells me. "How do you prove that any of this is true?"

"There are various proofs throughout the text. First of all, it says that the girl was a child of the enslaved people, that she was born from them. But then she was living with the emperor and became his child. Who does this happen to? This happens to servants, who are born from among the enslaved people and are brought to the oppressors to grow up and be raised under and near them."

"But that is the very transgression of the princess," the middle aged woman states. "She is from the slaves but the emperor was so moved by her infinite beauty that he took her in as his own."

"All children have infinite beauty," I reply. "But there are other hints at this being the case as well. First of all, it says that the emperor was not just her father but also her ruler. No kind and caring parent imposes themselves as a ruler over their child. That is what uncaring and entitled parents do."

"It was a special case," the young woman explains. "The emperor was an emperor of the whole world. He was the ruler of everyone. So he had to be the ruler of her. This is how royal families work."

"Is it? I doubt I would ever find a kind and loving family where any member sees themselves as the rulers of the others."

"You just do not understand the structure of royal and high-born families," the first old man exclaims.

"But she wasn't high born," I tell him, "she was born a slave. Anyways, she as a teenager told the Great Ruler that she was nothing compared to the emperor. No child raised in a healthy environment would ever think that of their parent. Only an abused child would. And emperors who abuse their adopted children are not good fathers."

"She simply meant that she had no power compared to the power of the emperor," the first old man explains, "and that her trying to change his mind was impossible."

"That is a possibility," I agree, "but she did not say that her power was nothing against his power. She didn't say that her position was nothing against his position. She said that her very being itself was nothing against his being. She asked who was she against him. Not what was her power against his, not what was her place against his, but who was she, who was she, as a very person, as a very being, against him as a very being."

"That's really a stretch," the second old man says. "She simply meant that her position was nothing against his."

"Even if that was the case, what kind of father gives his daughter no power compared to his own power? What kind of father does not even listen to his daughter's words?"

"You simply do not understand what it was like at that time," the middle aged man presses.

"I do understand," I respond, "because those times were a mirror to our times and our times are a mirror to those times. Anyways, another piece of evidence is that the emperor says in the same breath for both the girl and the other slave to get back to work. Now, in any society, and according to basic logic, the work that slaves do is very different from the work that respected citizens do. For the emperor to tell both slaves to go back to work at the same time, in the same breath, without distinguishing one type of work from another, this really indicates that the type of work that both slaves were doing was similar. It was both slavery."

"That is a reach," the first old man tells me. "Both of them were told to go to work in the same breath because both of them had work to do, but of course the work that each one had to do was different."

"If it was fundamentally different, then the emperor would have, unconsciously, made a distinction between the two types of work. But he did not. Meaning that the type of work they did was similar. Meaning that everything that "go back to work" entailed was similar for the two slaves. Psychologically that would not happen. The emperor would not talk as if there was no distinction between the work of the two slaves if there was an important distinction."

"You are pulling ideas from thin air, girl," the middle aged woman tells me. I don't comment again that I'm not a girl. "Calm down and look at it through sober eyes. If you can, that is. I doubt that you have developed the capacity to."

"Exactly," the second old man agrees. "It's possible to tell two different people to get back to two different kinds of work at once."

"It is possible, but it's unlikely," I counter. "If the two different types of work are inherently different, then anyone would make a distinction between the two in their mind, and that distinction would show up in their speech. Psychologically, they would not speak about the two different types of work as if they were implicitly one and the same. It's very unlikely. And, seeing as how easily and how naturally the emperor spoke his words, it's more likely that he saw the work of both slaves as being similar."

"You're not sure of anything, are you, girl?" the middle aged man spits at me.

"I am sure of the people in my community. I am sure of the work they are forced to do each and every day under the threat of death. I am sure of the hunger, the poverty, the sickness, the misery that bleeds through every part of our lives. And I'm sure of how we have to work ourselves down to the bone, down to exhaustion, making you and your people rich. I am sure that this is exactly what the Great Ruler would teach against, would warn against, if She was anyone worth believing in.

"And I know the toil and the isolation and the abuse and the misery that your servants face. I have seen them and talked to them and cried with them. They are part of my community and they are devastated, devastated, so completely devastated by what you do to them. Yet I have seen them and heard them say that despite all the abuse, they cannot help but cling to you as if you were their parents, because for large stretches of their lives, you are the only adults that they have.

"I know that these children are the most abused, the most afflicted, the most wretched of our community. And they are from us, and are fundamentally a part of our community, despite being forced to be your abused and neglected children as well. These people are the ones who most have a right to confront you and stand against you and bring you down.

"There is one more thing," I continue. "The Great Ruler would not want a privileged and pampered princess to speak as the voice of the powerless against their oppressors. She would want the most oppressed of the people to be able to stand up to and stand against their abusers. Your version of the story is a story of a pampered saviour representing people whose experiences she never lived. My version of the story is a story about a broken girl finding her voice and her power, in favour of the people whose experiences she intimately understood and experienced, against the people who oppressed them all.

"You do not understand us. You will never understand us. But we are forced to understand you, and we will stand against you. By being exactly what the villains were, by taking children from the communities they were born into and forcing them to rely on you as the adults in their lives, by forcing us into degrading and dehumanizing work and pitiful lives, you are the villains. And like the villains that came before you, you will be stood against and destroyed." My voice is unwavering and my eyes are defiant. There is death in my heart, and life and hatred and love. Life and death which are united as one. Love and hatred which are united as one. I am afraid and I am not afraid and I am brave and I am not brave all at once.

"You wretch!" the first old man complains. "You have openly admitted to committing heresy! Guard, seize her!"

I make no move to resist as I am held firmly by the guard. The other overclass people also move to hold me down. And I let them. I let them manipulate my body as the guard puts me in handcuffs. I let them put a collar around my neck with a chain attached to it. I let the guard pull me by it as if I was a dog.

But I do not let them see my fear. I do not let them see the dread I am feeling and I do not for even a moment put my head down or change the triumphant, proud expression on my face. I will not let them see me cower. I will not let them see me cringe. I will let them humiliate me, but I will not for a second let them take the dignity that is inherent to who I am.

I get led out of the building, and out onto the street. There are people all around staring at me. I stare them down unfalteringly. I have the face and body language of a monarch, despite being chained up and collared. I have the face and body language of a monarch, of a warrior, of a hero from legend standing in their victory. I show everyone around me that I am unbowed, I am unbowed, I am beyond unbowed, despite all the things that are happening to me.

I get shoved into the back of the police car. And I do not cry out as the guard puts his rough hands on me. I do not cry out as I am shoved into the metal of the back of the car. I do not cry out as my disintegrating body hits the hard metal. And I sit silently as I am driven to my fate.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to miss my family so much. And they're going to miss me. Mama, Daddy, Uncle Chandon, Uncle Dromon, Malita, Raylenn, Farley, Calliden, Salki, Faylo, I'm nothing without them. I cannot exist without them. And they're going to have to live the rest of their lives without me. It's so unfair, it's so unfair. It's so very incredibly, unbearably unfair.

And not just my family. My whole community would miss me. My whole community relies on me, we all rely on each other. We all need each other. And every single person who has touched my life, every single person who has brought joy and love and purpose to my life, they will all miss me. They will all miss me so much. I know what grief is like. I have lost many community members and family members myself. I don't want to give them any more grief. I want us to all be together, to all have each other.

And yet, they would be proud of me. I know they would be proud of me. They would be proud that I had died on my feet, instead of on my knees as so many other people in my community are forced to die. I would die for standing up for my people, for my dignity, for our collective dignity, and for our Mother. I have been able to speak the truth - if only a bit of it - to the overclass and I have been able to make them see. This is so much more than most people can ever dream of. And my family would be grateful that I got this chance. I am dying because I was strong in the face of the overclass, not because I was worked to death by the overclass.

That doesn't mean that I want to die. But, truly, I don't want to live either. I never wanted to live. Not this trudging, drudging, horrible life. Not this life of constant pain and suffering and loss and grief and work, work, so much work. Leaving this life is an escape. And death is a freedom. It is the final freedom. I have long longed for this final freedom to come and take me, and I guess I have my wishes manifested into reality now. And honestly, there is a large part of me that is looking forwards to my death, though a large part of me is terrified.

But my family and my community will miss me so much. They'll be proud of me, they'll be relieved for me, they'll be happy for me. But they'll miss me so much. And that's not fair. That's so not fair.

But no matter what, I am going to go down with dignity. I will die on my feet. And being able to die on my feet will make my death worth it. Worth it for myself and worth it for everyone who has ever loved me.

We drive to a place that is full of tall, tall glass buildings which stretch up and up and up to the sky. There are streets all around me, and false, glowing trees. I am yanked out of the vehicle and pulled into a stage in the middle of a large square. This stage is really ornate, made of carved rock in flowing and swirling patterns, the stage floor itself rising and falling like fabric in the wind. There are seats in front of it and about a third of those seats ard filled with people. The chain of my collar is tied to a metal post. If it can be described as a post, it's so twisting and curving.

I stand here, and I look over the crowd. The seats are slowly filling up, as I am standing on my feet on the stage, looking out undaunted. The seats are slowly filling up until they become full. Everyone looks at me. I have all their attention. And I know what I must do now.

I tell a story.

In the middle of the story, a pair of guards walks up to me and tells me to shut up. The crowd boos them down and tells them to let me finish. After I am finished, I am shot in the head. Everything is burning pain, and then there is no pain at all. I find myself in a meadow.

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

"Remember children," my adopted mother tells my adopted sisters and I, "when you help other people, they are more likely to help you when you in turn need help."

I am with my adopted family, my mother and my two sisters. We are in the living room of our house, sitting on the plush sofas with gold edges, talking. We are beside the big window that has a lively view of the woods outside our house, woods I am very familiar with. I like talking to my family. Mostly. There is something about it that makes me slightly desolated. But I don't know why. My family is nice.

But I'm sad. I'm so beyond sad. I'm always sad, and I don't know why. There must be some kind of chemical imbalance in my brain. Well, whatever. My mother has spent enough money on me already. Money is precious. I don't need her spending more money on getting me therapy and medication and all of that. I just need to deal with my sadness all by myself, even though it's so great, even though it's so terrible. I am stronger than they think I am. I have to be strong. No matter how hard it is.

"That makes sense," my sister Anabella responds. "Gratitude is a very strong emotion, and it can come in very handy." Anabella is very beautiful, because of the complicated skincare routine she does each day, using all-natural, fair trade products.

"Exactly," my other sister Riviera agrees. "When people in a society all owe each other, that makes the society more tight-knit, and they become more able to withstand adversity and obstacles, ultimately benefitting the individual." Riviera is very smart. It shows through in the way she talks, in what she says, in everything about her. She reads lots of books and absorbs so much knowledge from them.

Compared to these two girls, I cannot help but feel as if I'm inadequate. I'm not pretty. I'm not smart. I'm not able to do anything special. I'm just a normal girl. I don't know what I'm able to give to this family. I don't know what I am able to give to this town. I can only try my best. And this sinks down heavy into me. Because it's never enough, not truly. My best is never enough. My existence is never enough. I'm not worth all the resources that get wasted on me. There are so many people who are so much more worthy.

"That's right," mother tells us. "When the group is doing well, the group can take care of you better. We are social beings, us humans. And social interaction is all about give and take. The more you can give, the more you can take."

"You only get what you give," Anabella declares. "Those who can give more can get more."

"Exactly," mother agrees. My adopted mother is a very wise woman. She has so much knowledge. And because she has so much knowledge, she is able to do very well for herself and her family, she is able to thrive in this corrupted world. She has a large house that she has bought, filled with many pretty things, and she was able to take me in as well.

She has raised me since I was a newborn. I almost don't remember my biological parents. Though I suppose that's a good thing. They gave me up. They probably didn't want me. My adopted mother has done so much to take care of me, I really shouldn't be missing people I barely remember. But I do. I miss them so much. I don't know why I miss them, I don't know what I miss. But the absence of my parents sits heavy in my chest, in my throat, in my gut, all the time. I don't know how to escape this feeling.

I feel as if something vital and integral to who I am has been ripped from me. I feel as if I am walking around with an emptiness in my chest, in my stomach, in my throat. I feel as though I am walking around with an emptiness in my soul. As if it's all not mine. As if all the pieces of me are all not mine. My life is not mine. Nothing is mine.

I feel inhuman. I feel unliving. I feel nonexistent yet horribly, horribly, intolerably existent at the same time. As if I am some horrible, wretched beast made of a slime that is too disgusting to be real and too tangible to be fake. I am a hollow shell. I am nothing yet I am some thing. I am a thing.

"What do you think, little Zia?" Anabella asks me.

"I think you guys are very wise," I respond to her. "I'm learning a lot, listening to you guys talking."

"That's good," my mother tells me. "The more you learn, the more you'll be able to fulfill your role in society."

"Thanks," I tell her.

"So, what are some ways you can build gratitude within the people in your life?" mother asks us.

"We can give them things," Riviera suggests. "A debt of a material nature is probably the hardest debt to pay back, especially if they do not have much access to resources."

"Yes," Anabella cuts in, "and they'll be trying to make up the difference in all sorts of other ways, this is a great way to build long term loyalty."

"Loyalty is a very important resource," I say. "You never know when you're going to need it."

We keep on talking, the four of us, until we see the sun set outside. It is a glorious, burning orange colour that fades out into gold higher up in the sky. But it's more than colour. It is so much more than colour, so beyond colour, that it isn't even colour at all but rather pure emotion. It fills me with a sense of wonder. It almost feels like home, feels like belonging, feels like all of these feelings that are denied to me. I almost cry with joy as I look out at the sunset in silence, along with the rest of my family.

"That's beautiful," Riviera comments, a high sort of awe in her voice.

"Look at the colours," mother says. "Red, orange, yellow. So very vibrant and bright."

"It's glorious," I agree.

It's dinner time after that, and we gather in the large dining room. I bring all the bowls of food up to the table.

"Thank you, Zia," mother tells me. I smile at her. She's so nice. I tell myself that she's nice. I tell myself that she appreciates me, she appreciates what I do for her, she appreciates what I do for the whole family. Though it's not enough, it's never enough to make up for all the things she has done for me.

I sit down at my own spot at the large, intricately carved, polished wooden table. I sit down in front of my shimmering silver place mat and give myself a healthy heaping of the vegetable and beef stew that we cooked together yesterday. The food is good. The food is always good. But there is a part of me that feels almost guilty for eating it, I don't know why. It feels criminal, the act of giving myself food. Although there's plenty of food to go around. There is always plenty of food to go around.

We keep talking as we eat. We're a close-knit family. We talk whenever we get the chance to. I try my best to keep a cheerful expression and tone. I try my best to not let anyone see what's going on inside of me. I'm in such a bright and cheerful room with such bright and cheerful people. I should be nothing but bright and cheerful myself, so that I can at least pretend to fit in, so that I can at least pretend to belong.

And they're none the wiser. They don't suspect that I don't belong here. They don't suspect that I don't belong among them. And I'm such a liar and such a traitor but they would be so, so disappointed to know the truth. I absolutely dread disappointing them.

"Take some more stew," my mother tells me, "there's plenty to go around."

———

I'm in my room. The door is locked from the inside. It locks from the outside too, which is a bit scary but it's that way with all the doors in the house. I'm glad that I'm alone right now. It means that I don't have to pretend. I don't have to put on a mask and pretend to be happy in front of everyone else. That's a huge burden lifted from my shoulders, though the heavy weight of sadness is still there, it's always there, and I don't know what to do with it.

Being alone most of the time would kill me even more, and I'm very genuinely glad that I have plenty of company, but having some time to be alone is welcome.

So I lie in my bed. I lie in my soft bed, under my soft blankets, and I cry. I look up at the ceiling and I let my tears fall freely. Why I'm crying I have no idea. I have no idea why I'm crying but I'm crying anyways. And I do know why I'm crying.

I know that it's because it's all wrong, it's all so terribly wrong. Everything is wrong. My life is wrong. Who I am as a person is wrong. It's all twisted, it's all corrupt, it's dark and thorny and it's not right. The thorns of everything I am inside are piercing my flesh, piercing my organs, piercing my capillaries until my entire body is bleeding, my mind is bleeding, my heart is bleeding, my soul is bleeding.

I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding. Everything inside me is bleeding. And everything I am is bleeding. My existence is slipping through my fingers. I am slipping through my fingers. I am losing more and more of myself. I am leaving myself until there is nothing of me left. But I'm here, I'm here, I'm irrevocably here at the same time. And I can't escape, I can't escape, I can't escape.

I am no-one. I am nothing. I am less than no-one. I am less than nothing. And I cannot ever be anything because everything I am is twisted. Everything I am is nothing. Is less than nothing. Everything I am is wrong and everything about me is wrong and it's so wrong and it's so wrong and it's all wrong and my whole life is so wrong.

I don't know why I feel like my life is wrong. But I know it is. There is no reason to think this. There is no reason for me to hate this life that I'm living, no reason to be disturbed by it. But I am disturbed. I am so disturbed. But, my life is fine. I go to school, and the teachers are nice, and the kids are nice. I get decent grades. They're not extremely good but they're pretty good. I have a few people I talk to at lunch time. I go home and my home life is good. My mother is nice. My sisters are nice. They all treat me well. Everyone treats me well. So why do I feel like this?

It must be because I am deeply horrible, I am deeply ungrateful, I am deeply unsalvageable. There are so many people who have it worse than me. There are so many people who have it so, so much worse than me. So why can I not be happy with what I have? Why can I not be grateful for everything? It's all going right. It's all going so very right and yet it's all going wrong. It must be because of me that it all feels so very wrong. It must be because of some fault of my own.

I have so many faults. I have so many flaws. I can't sleep at night, I'm lazy, I'm ungrateful, I can't be happy. I'm not pretty or kind or a good student or outgoing or brave or clever or wise or anything. I'm not athletic, I'm not coordinated, I'm not organized. It's all not enough. Everything I do and everything I am is all not enough. It's all not enough and I'm so inadequate and I'm so wrong.

I'll never be enough. I'll never be enough. No matter what I do, no matter who I be, it's all not going to ever be enough and I'm going to not ever be enough. Because the thing that is wrong with me is intrinsic. It's inherent. It's so deep that it reaches its scarred, infected tendrils down to my very core, through my blood, through my bone marrow. It's so all-reaching that it claws and grasps and wraps around every part of me. Around my throat. Around my eyes. Around my fingers and my toes and my stomach and me knees. It is both invading me and residing with me as if it was meant to be there always. I guess it was meant to be there always.

I guess this is all I am.

I feel poison in every part of me. Poison in my bloodstream, poison rushing through all my veins, all my arteries, all my venules, all my arterioles, all my capillaries. The poison is flowing through me as if it is blood. It is plunging inside me and entering all the space around my cells. All my interstitial fluid is full of dark, corrupted, thick poison. It is entering my cells, and my cytosol is saturated with it. My lymphatic tissue is flowing with poison and my lymph nodes cannot clean it out because there is just so much, just so much, just so much. My cerebral fluid is filled with poison and the poison is surging through my brain. It's surging everywhere.

And the thick, viscous, vicious black fluid is pouring through all the many, many tiny holes and punctures and gaps and tears that are all over my body. That's what it feels like at least. It feels like the thorns of who I am have pierced through all over my body, leaving me torn and ripped and punctured and bleeding. And the poison is seeping through all the holes, is seeping out into the world. It's corroding my skin, it's staining my bedsheets and blankets and pillows, it's leaving inerasable marks that only I can ever see.

If my family knew who I truly was, if they knew what I truly was, then they would be disgusted, I'm sure. They would be disgusted, and shocked, and betrayed, they'd be so betrayed. They spent so much money on me. So much money and time and effort. So much care and consideration. All for me to turn out like this. All for me to turn out like this disgusting, insufferable mess of a human being. I let them down. I let them down. I owe them so, so much and I let them down.

They'd throw me out if they knew how I really felt. If they knew what I truly was. If they knew that the girl they tried to make into their daughter was so ungrateful, was so miserable despite everything that she has, despite everything that's been given to her, then they would definitely throw me out. And they'd have every right in the world to. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve my family and all the care that they have given to me.

I wonder what my biological family is like. I wonder what they would think of me. They probably do not care about me at all. They probably haven't given me a second thought after giving me away. What kind of parents wouldn't make sure that they could be there for their own child? What kinds of parents wouldn't raise their own child?

Of course, it's possible that they had to give me away because they were too mentally ill or too poor or too addicted or whatnot to take care of a child. It could be that they wanted to raise me, they wanted to support me, but they just couldn't. Even if that was the case though, it would still be their own fault. It would still be their own fault for giving me away. Because as my adopted mother said, everybody who is mentally ill or poor or addicted actually, secretly chooses it. So, according to her, my parents could have raised me if they wanted to. And she's right, of course. She's always right.

I hate my parents. But I love them. I love them but I hate them but I want them and I need them, despite the fact that they've let me down so much. And I love my mother, but there is a part of me that cannot trust her. I don't know why I can't trust her. She's been nothing but kind to me during my whole entire life. But something just feels off. I know I shouldn't be feeling like this. I know that there's no reason for me to be feeling like this. But something is off. Something is so very off.

It's probably just me. What's off is probably just me. Just my unending hunger. Just my desire for more, for more, for more than this perfectly happy, healthy, middle class life that I am living. I'm not a good person. I don't abide by the rules and the teachings that my mother is teaching me. I want to. Dear Universe I really, really want to. But I just can't. But I'm just not capable, no matter how hard I try.

Or maybe I am capable, and I'm just not trying hard enough. Perhaps this is all my fault. It probably is. I don't know whether it's worse to not want to be a good person hard enough or whether it's worse to not be capable of being a good person at all. But I know that I must surely be the worse one, whichever one is worst.

I am still crying. I haven't stopped crying. I have no idea how long I've been lying here. I'm supposed to be asleep. I was supposed to have gone to sleep long ago. I've probably been awake here for an hour. I never get enough sleep at night. Not that anybody knows this. But for some strange reason, I am never tired during the days. I must not need that much sleep I guess. But still, night is for sleeping. All the proper people sleep at night. I should be sleeping at night as well.

The house is so quiet. It's eerie. And I'm still crying.

———

"So how was school today?" our mother asks us, from behind the wheel of the eight seat SUV. It's a huge car. Plenty of space for all of us. There's screens on the back of each seat so that the kids in the back can watch movies and play games. But we're not going to do that in the fifteen minute drive to get home from school. The sun is setting behind us. My siblings and I are in the second row. It's idyllic. But I'm still drowning in my hidden misery.

"It was great," Riviera pipes up. She is playing with the end of her strawberry blond braid. Both the sisters have red hair, but my mother is blonde. They must have gotten their genes from the sperm donor. They were both conceived medically, but my mother didn't want to be pregnant again but she wanted a third child. I have raven black hair.

"I got invited to go to a party," Annabella speaks. "It's this Saturday, at Claira's house. Can I go?"

"Of course, my child. What are the rest of you guy's plans for the weekend?"

"I'm going to a movie with my friends," Riviera chimes. "It's the new Shadow Lady movie."

"Oh that should be fun. What are you doing, Zia?"

"I'm just staying home and studying. I'm behind on some homework."

"It's a good idea to study," my mother agrees. "It's how you can develop your mind, so that you can contribute more to society."

"We know, momma, we know." Annabella's voice has a hint of playful frustration in it.

"You girls are all very smart," our mother tells us. "You all have much to give to the world."

"Aww, thanks," I tell her, trying to put as much sincerity into my voice as I can.

"What are you guys learning about?"

"We're learning about batteries," Annabella explains, "and the way that electrons flow through batteries. It's really quite interesting. The metals that lose their electrons become ions and the ions that gain electrons become metals."

"We're learning about how to divide polynomials," Riviera starts. "It's actually pretty easy, but most people in my class find it hard. I don't know why."

"Well, I'm sure it's easy for you. I'm sure it's easy for both of you, is it not?"

"Yeah," Anabella replies, "it was okay last semester when I learned it."

"There is much knowledge and wisdom to be learned in school."

"Yes there is, mother." My voice is smooth and warm. The opposite of how I feel inside.

"Always pay close attention in school," she replies back. "School will teach you many many great wisdoms."

"Of course, mom," Riviera responds. "You see how well I'm doing."

"I do."

"School will help us make that cold hard cash," Anabella chirps.

"Absolutely," my mother agrees, "and that's definitely very important. What's also important though is the fact that school will increase your wisdom and knowledge. It will teach you how the world works. It will teach you why things are the way that they are. It will teach you how things work, how nature works, how the universe works, how people work. It will teach you how to go about your lives in a good and respectable way."

"You're right, mother," I tell her. "School has so many important messages. So many deep and hard-hitting messages."

"Yes, and you girls need to make sure to pay attention so that you can understand these messages and become truly enlightened."

I think about everything that I've learned in school. Math, science, history, grammar, how to analyze literary motifs, statistics. Atoms and neutrons and quarks and positrons. The body and all its failings. They were all interesting, doubtlessly. I have always found school interesting. But still. Still. I always felt like there might be something, something more. I always felt like there had to be something more than all these particles and molecules and metaphors. These had to be something deeper than that.

But I keep these thoughts to myself. I am probably only holding on to fantasy. I am definitely wrong. Of course there isn't anything miraculous and magical about the world. Of course all that we see is all that there is in this life, the only life. I just am stil immature. I'm still a child. I want something indescribable and inexpressible and altogether completely unreasonable. This is how a child thinks. This is what a child wants. I'm fifteen.

I need to grow up.

"What is the most interesting thing you guys have learned in school?" Annabella asks.

"Oh, probably that everything is made up of other, smaller things. Nothing is absolute except for space and time."

"Wow, that's very deep," I comment. "It's really almost mystical."

"The real world is more than mystical," Anabella states. "It's better than any magic."

"So it is," I agree. "So it is."

But is it really? I wonder. Is things being made of smaller things being made of smaller things being made of smaller things, until you get down to the waves, the ripples in space time itself, is that really better than magic? It has to be, after all, it's so cool. But despite being cool, there is this hollowness to it. There just, there has to be something more. Despite how cool this is, it's not enough. Except, it is enough. It has to be enough. It's all that there is.

This is making me feel hollow. This entire conversation is making me feel hollow. Yet I swallow down the hollowness. I don't know why it's here. It has no place. It doesn't deserve to be here. This is a perfectly normal conversation between a perfectly normal family. I swallow down the hollowness, and I swallow down my tears, and I try my best to not choke on either of these things. I always try my best, and I always fail. I wish so desperately that I could cry.

I tilt my head slightly to the side, I lean on the cool glass of the car window. The conversation flows on around me, and I weave my way through it as best as I can. I genuinely do love talking to people, including my family. It makes all the hurt hurt just a little bit less. And it makes my life just a little less storm-drenched, a little less shadow-covered. But this topic that we're talking about, dear Universe I hate it.

———

It's Sunday. We are working, all four of us. Cleaning the house. It's nice, how we all share our work and we all share our responsibility. I couldn't've asked for a better family if I tried. Though part of me still wants to try. I am dusting the many shelves and tables and cabinets that we have. It's really rather tedious work. But thankfully Annabella is helping me. We are working in tandem. It's nice, it really is.

But still I'm drowning. Still the poison is seeping through all parts of me.

But there is music playing in the background, from Annabella's phone which is on the ground. It is nice music. From her favourite playlist. It's nice music, but it is a bit too cheery for my taste. Too cheery, too smooth, too warm. I like music that is sad. I like music that is cold and rough and cut open jagged. Music that is desperate. Though truly no music can even come remotely close to brushing against the true depths of how I feel. All music pools on the very surface edges of me. So I don't really like music at all.

We carefully move all the decorations to one side of the carved wooden shelf that we are cleaning right now. This takes a bit of time, since there are so many decorations, both big an small. Colourful and flowing and made of so very many different types of material. It's beautiful, but I cannot take in the beauty of it. I cannot take in the beauty of any of it. I am too sad.

It's a pity really, my mother spent so much money on this house and I can't even appreciate most of it. She always spends so much on this family, she always gives so much to this family. But far too often I am far more ungrateful than I should be. I really am really rotten inside.

We work at an unhurried, almost leisurely pace, Annabella and I. Actually, all of us do. Because we're at home, we're not at work. No-one's forcing us to do this, no-one's paying us, we don't have to rush ourselves. And anyways, there are so very many delicate little pieces everywhere. It would be a bad idea to get careless. I mean, mother will probably understand if we break something, but still, I don't want to cause any problems for her.

We finish moving everything on this side of the shelf and we pass our dusters over the surface. Now we just have to do the same thing for the other side of the shelf and then we have to rearrange all the decorations. We arrange all the decorations differently each time we put them back. That's a clever idea Riviera came up with, and it always changes up the way that the house looks, it always gives a new feeling to the house. Since each shelf is rearranged every once in a while, there is always something different to look at. If only I could appreciate it.

"You're doing a great job," Annabella tells me, cheeriness in her voice.

"Thanks, Annabella, you are too."

"It's nice, working together, isn't it?"

"It is," I say, and it both is and isn't a lie. I appreciate her company, her companionship, her help. But my life is not nice. I don't know why.

"These shelves were so dusty when we started out. They look so much better now."

"They do," I agree. "This house is so big, it's inevitable that things will get dusty."

"Yes it is inevitable." There is a hint of tiredness in her voice. "There's always more work to do."

"Yes."

"Should we move on to the next piece?" she asks. We are done with this intricate, multilayered shelf. But there is a lot more furniture to get to. Not that we have to finish everything today. It would be very difficult to finish everything in one day. I don't want to push Annabella too hard.

"Sure. Where to now?"

"Let's go to the television stand on this floor."

"Sounds good."

There are a bunch of televisions in our house. One in the basement. One in the sunroofed attic upstairs. My mother and my two sisters both have televisions in their rooms. And there is the main television, which is as wide as I am tall, on the first floor. It's for all of us. But my mother asked me if I wanted a television as well. I told her that I didn't want one, since I didn't want to use up any more of her money than I had to. I wonder if I would be happier with a television. I don't really need one, but still, I'm the only one that doesn't have one.

We move on to the large shelf of the television, which is raised eye level to the couches. There's a lot of stuff to move around here as well. Moving stuff around always takes the most time. My sisters say they like it though, because they can focus on all the very pretty things we have around. But I don't feel the same way. I can't focus on all this stuff, ever. Like I said before, there's something strange about me, something deeply wrong with me.

"How are you girls doing?" our mother asks us.

"Doing fine, how about you?" Annabella replies.

"I'm doing alright myself. You guys have gotten a lot done. Good job."

"Thank you, mother," I answer.

"So I'm thinking this is enough work for today," our mother begins, "what do you girls think? Do you want to keep working?"

"I think we've had enough for today," Annabella answers. "What do you think, Zia?"

"Yeah, if you guys are thinking of wrapping up then I'm fine with that." My voice is a lot smoother than I how feel.

"I think we should go and eat dinner," our mother suggests. "I can order food for us. What restaurant to you guys want to eat from?"

———

Mother's eyes are darkened with worry, with a light sort of terror. It makes my heart freeze with hard ice in my chest. I don't know why she has gathered us all around her, sitting around the dining table despite there being no plates in front of us. Whatever it is, it cannot be good. We all look at her and at each other worriedly and solemnly.

"What is it, Mom?" Annabella asks.

"My girls," she begins, "I have terrible news to impart to you. The bank that has all of our savings, that has my paycheque for these next six months, this bank has been robbed. Now we have nothing. No money, no paycheque, nothing."

"But can't the bank give us back our money?" Riviera asks, concern and disbelief flowing through her voice.

"I'm afraid not," our mother replies. "The bank has been robbed to the ground. They have nothing left to give to anybody."

"What about the government?" Annabella suggests, "can't they help?"

"The government doesn't help normal people like us and you know this," our mother replies, fear laced into her words.

"But it's not fair," Riviera complains. "It's not our fault that our money got robbed. It's not our fault at all. Shouldn't the government be able to do something to help?"

"The government is corrupt and we all know it." Our mother's voice is laced with resignation. "They do not have any morals. They do not care about what is fair and what isn't. All they care about is their own money and their own power."

"That's really unfair, mother," I speak. "What will we do now?"

"That's what I've been meaning to talk to you girls about," our mother starts. "These next six months will be extra tight. We won't be able to do all the things that we normally do."

"Like what?" Riviera asks. "What won't we be able to do?"

"We won't be able to spend anything," our mother replies. "We won't be able to buy new clothes, we won't be able to buy new shoes, no new technology, no new toys, no new video games, no new decorations or blankets or anything."

"Will we still be able to watch movies and shows on our streaming services?" Annabella asks.

"No," our mother responds. "In fact, we have to stop our subscriptions to all of our streaming services. And we will have to stop our connection to the internet itself."

"No internet?" Riviera echoes, an incredulous tone in her voice.

"Yes, I'm afraid," our mother answers. "No internet, nothing fun."

"I'm so sorry that we're all going through all of this," I speak to my family. "I'm sure that we'll make it through this. I'm sure we'll make it to the other side of this." I keep my voice calm, smooth, solemn, calming. I look around at the eyes of my entire family. They are all shocked, all full of dread, all full of a horrible anticipation and a dreadful resignation. I feel as though I'm the only one who's even a little bit calm. I feel as though I'm the only one with her head on even a little bit straight. And that means that I have to be the one that calms everyone down and makes everyone feel a bit better.

"Will we really make it to the other side of this?" Riviera asks worriedly.

"We will, I promise," I assure her. I assure them all. They have to have hope. Through this shocking event, I have to make sure that my family has hope.

"We will be able to get through to the other side of this," our mother echoes. "We're a strong family. We're a close family. We're a tight-knit family. We'll get through this."

"So what else will we have to go without?" Annabella questions.

"We won't be able to go out either," our mother answers. "We won't be able to go out to movies, or dances. We won't be able to go to night clubs, or restaurants, or theatres or performances. We won't be able to go to the museum or the art gallery or to any concerts. We'll just have to stay home. And we'll have to try to conserve money and gas."

"What on earth?" Annabella's voice is incredulous. "How will we survive that? How will we be able to live through all of that? This is an atrocity!"

"I agree!" Riviera exclaims. "You can't expect us to live like this. It's simply far, far too much! How will we live without anything fun? How will we live when life is so boring?!"

"I know it will be hard, girls. I know. But we have to deal with this. We have to play the cards that we've been dealt."

"Exactly," I echo. "We still have our big, pretty house. And we still have all the nice things and the pretty furniture in our house. We can also take walks. We can see all the other pretty houses in the community of the forest and we can see their pretty gardens. We can walk through the forest. That's free. And I know how much you all like to do that." I try to keep a positive attitude. I try to help my sisters keep as positive of an attitude as they can. The Universe knows that we will need it.

"Exactly," our mother agrees. "And besides, this is only six months. We will switch to a different bank. And when my paycheque comes again in six months, we will have as much money as we used to have before. We'll be able to pay for everything we used to be able to pay for before."

"Ugh, fine," Annabella conceded.

"What about all our debts?" Riviera asks. "How will we pay those? Will we be able to hold off on paying those? What will we do?"

"We will be able to hold off on paying most of our debts, until my next payday comes," our mother explains. At this, my sisters smile. I force a smile myself. "I talked to the bank. They said that they would pause payments on most debts."

"That's great!" Annabella exclaims. "That was really nice of them."

"So it was," I agree.

"Don't get your hopes up too high," our mother cautions us, "there are still some debts we have to pay off. Like our mortgage for example. The bank says that we have to pay that, even though we lost all our money."

"What?!" Annabella exclaims, exasperation and anger in her voice. "How will we do that?! Our house is so big. Our mortgage is so big."

"What will happen if we don't pay?" Riviera asks.

"Then our house will be gone. And if our house is gone, we'll be out on the streets, and my job will be gone too. Let's hope that doesn't happen."

"It won't happen," I assure my family. "We'll find a way to stop that from happening."

"We will," our mother presses. "And we'll find a way to pay for our heating and water bills too. Those are also bills we're not allowed to put on hold."

"This is horrible!" Riviera exclaims. "This is so, so, so horrible!"

"It happens," our mother explains. "These things, they just happen sometimes."

"So what else will we have to go without?" Annabella asks. "Don't tell us that we won't be able to eat either."

"That's the thing," our mother begins, "we might not be able to eat. The Universe knows that I don't have the money for food right now. But we'll find a way. I promise."

"What?!" Annabella and Riviera both exclaim together in a messy, off-time unison. They both begin talking at the same time. No, talking is the wrong word. They both begin almost screaming at the same time, speaking so fast and in such a panicked way. Even my calm exterior cracks. How on earth are we supposed to get through this? How on earth are we supposed to go six months with no food?

I try to keep my face neutral. I try to not let the fear that I'm feeling show. I have to stay calm for my family. I have to stay collected for my family. I think that I'm the only one who is holding everyone together. And I have to hold everyone together. It does not matter how much pure dread I am feeling inside me. It doesn't matter that inside me, there is a terrible, terrible foreboding. A feeling that something is going to go terribly, terribly wrong. Even more terribly wrong than what is happening right now.

"Girls, girls, calm down!" our mother yells, voice laced with love and with worry and concern. Even now, her voice is loving. Even in the midst of so much stress, she loves her children. She is such an amazing mother, despite everything that I so very irrationally feel inside.

My sisters do calm down, and we are left looking at each other with dread and hopelessness. I force myself to smile, just a little thing, a placating thing that offers perhaps a small bit of comfort.

"Girls," our mother begins, "I will make sure that our family has all the food that it can have. I will make sure that our family has all the food that it needs. I will make sure that we can continue paying our mortgage and that we can continue paying our electricity bills and our water bills and our car payments. I will make sure that we have enough to get by. Don't worry girls, I will make sure. I will continue to provide for my family."

"How will we do that?" Riviera asks.

"I will ask our friends and our family for help. They will help us in paying our mortgage. They will help us in paying our electricity bills and water bills. They will help us in paying for our food. We have many friends, many family members. They will pull through for us. They will give what they can."

"But don't they have their own bills to pay?" Riviera asks.

"They do, but they will spare what they can," our mother answers.

"Will that be enough?" Annabella asks.

"It will be what it is," our mother answers. "Whatever help we can get from them, whatever money we can get from them, we will make it stretch as much as we can make it stretch and we will do as much with the money as we can. We will get by."

"We will get by," I echo. "I have faith in mother and in her ability to help her family and her ability to make things work. She's so smart, so brilliant, so resourceful. She'll help us though this, I'm sure. She can do it. If she can't do it then no-one can."

"Thank you, Zia. I appreciate your brave and resilient outlook to this situation." Our mother smiles at me. It's a tiny thing. A fleeting thing. But something that gives me strength anyways. Something that gives me courage anyways. But still, I cannot get rid of this feeling in my heart that something truly terrible is about to happen, something far more terrible than this situation that we've found ourselves in, something intimately tied to this situation that we've found ourselves in.

"What about the debts?" Annabella asks. "If we ask for help from our friends and family, won't that mean that we have a debt to them? How will we pay that back?"

"They have a debt to us," our mother answers. "We have helped them many times in the past, and they have amassed quite a bit of debt to us. They will surely consider our ask for help as a way to pay back the debt that they have, not a way to extract debt from us."

"You are truly wise, momma!" Riviera declares with a hint of joy in her voice. "You can truly get us out of the worst situations. You have truly thought this through!"

"Thank you, my daughter," our mother responds. "Now if you will excuse me, I have many, many phone calls to make."

———

It's been three weeks since that terrible, terrible family talk when my mother told us what a situation we were in. It has been three weeks, and the food in our fridges and pantries are almost all out. Our food is almost all out, but my mother has spent so many hours calling people and calling people and getting whatever help she could from them. She has called everyone we know so far, and gotten many pledges of support. Let's just hope that it's enough.

It's Saturday now. It's Saturday, and my sisters are off at friends' houses, trying to make our food stretch by partaking in theirs. I don't really have any close friends, so I'm just sitting on the couch. It's a nice couch. It's a soft couch. It's a soft and nice couch and I kind of like sitting here, just thinking my thoughts.

As always, my thoughts run melancholy. My emotions run melancholy. Everything inside me runs melancholy, and there is very little that I can do about that, despite all my hardest efforts. But still, I don't feel as guilty for feeling sad right now, not as much as I usually do. Because the Universe knows that I have plenty good reason to be sad right now. We all do.

"Zia," my mother speaks to me, grabbing onto my forearm and leading me away to my room, "I need to talk to you."

She doesn't grab me like this very often. Her voice is urgent, is almost furtive, and her eyes are darkened. Her whole expression is darkened. Fear spikes in my heart. What is about to happen right now? It can surely be nothing good. But my mother wouldn't hurt me, would she? Of course she wouldn't hurt me. My mind is sure, but my guilty, traitorous heart is not so sure.

"What is it, mother?" I ask her, voice soft and conceding.

"I have to talk to you about our financial situation," she presses. "I'm sure you know how much trouble we're in."

"I do. Why?" This is not looking good. Is my family in more trouble than I thought? What are we going to do about this? Why is she telling only me? What can I do about this?

"Well, I talked to our friends and family. They are supporting us, but they do not have the money to support us fully."

"Oh no." My eyes go wide. "What will we do now?"

"That's what I meant to talk to you about," she starts. "We have enough money to pay off the mortgage, and that comes first. Because without the mortgage we'll be out on the street and I won't have a job."

"That's good."

"And we have enough money for food. But here's the thing, we don't have enough food for everyone."

"Oh no. What will we do?"

"I can feed your sisters. But I can't feed you more than one meal a day. You will have to eat your lunch at school and then just wait after you come home. Just wait for these few months to be over."

"Um ... excuse me?" I cannot believe what my own mother is saying.

"You will have to eat one meal a day, okay?"

"Okay." I reply. And really, it's the only thing that I can say. It's the only way I can reply. Because she's my mother. She's given me so much. How else could I possibly reply to her?

"You can do that, right? For your sisters and for me? So that we have enough to eat?" Her voice is almost pleading, but it also has a firm, pressing quality to it. And as always, I cannot deny her. I cannot deny her at all. Not even a bit.

"Of course, mother."

"I knew you would answer in this way. I knew that you would understand. You're a good girl. A righteous girl. You make the right decisions and do what is proper and decent and just."

"But mother ..." I begin.

"What is it, child?"

"If I said no, then what would you have done?"

"Then I still couldn't have given you food, I'm sorry. I have to make sure your two sisters get enough food."

I don't quite understand why she's singling me out to be the one that starves. I don't quite understand, but at the same time I do understand it. I understand it in the back of my mind, in the small, rebellious part of my heart that has been plaguing me since I was young. I almost cannot believe what's going on. But my worst fears are coming true.

"Mother," I begin, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

"What is it, my girl?"

"Why am I the one that has to go hungry?" I know I am not really supposed to ask this question. I know I am not really allowed to ask this question. I know I am only allowed to go along with what my mother wants. But I cannot help but to ask it anyways. I just ... I just have to know why.

"You know about debts and owing people, right?" There is a bit of forced, fake brightness in her voice. "You know that you must pay back the people who have helped you, right?"

"Yes, mother."

"We'll this is your way to pay me back, to pay this family back, for all that we have helped you over the years. See, we took you in and fed you and clothed you and sheltered you, and you need to pay us back for all that. You need to pay us back by making a sacrifice."

"Okay, mother."

"You're a good girl. I know that you can make sacrifices for what is good and right. And I know that you can pay back your debts."

This makes sense. What she's saying makes sense. She's not withholding food from me because she doesn't love me. She's not starving me because she doesn't love me. She does love me. She's just withholding food from me because it is the good, right, and just thing to do. She's only doing it because it's what's moral and proper to do. She's just following her morals, not her heart. And of course, she has to follow her morals, not her heart. She still loves me in her heart. She still does. But still ...

"Why do I owe you a debt and my sisters don't? You raised them as well." I know I am asking too many questions. I shouldn't be asking so many questions. I silently curse my traitorous mouth.

"I brought your sisters into the world," my mother explains. "And thus it is my job to take care of them and provide for them and raise them. It is not a debt that they're procuring, because it is simply my responsibility to take care of them, it is not something kind and generous that I am doing for them that I did not have to do.

"You on the other hand though, I didn't bring you into this world. You are not someone I have to have responsibility towards. And yet I took you in anyways. And yet I provided for you and helped you and fed you and sheltered you and raised you anyways, even though I didn't have to. And therefore everything I did for you was an act of kindness. An act of kindness that you have to repay somehow. You owe it to us. We had no obligation to give you a home, and yet we did. In fact, without me taking care of you when you were weak and helpless and defenceless, you might have died. And so you owe us your life."

"I understand," I tell my mother. But do I truly understand? I should understand. Everything that she said made perfect sense. She had to take care of my sisters. But she didn't have to take care of me. And so I absolutely do owe her, don't I? She's right. Of course she's right. She's wise and caring and kind and just, and of course she's always right.

"I'm glad you understand, my girl," my mother tells me. She smiles fondly at me, and I smile back at her. I love her smiles.

She leaves me in my room, and closes the door behind her. I hear the lock clicking shut from the outside, and my heart skips a beat in fear. I quickly calm myself down though, telling myself that my mother would of course have a good reason for locking the door. Of course she would. She has a good reason for all that she does. And the only reason that I am locked in is because I have a good reason to be.

I go to my soft bed, and I curl up. I hug my knees to my chest and lie against the pillow, on my side, looking at the forest outside the window. The trees are beautiful. They have always been beautiful. They try to soothe my soul as much as they can, and I wish they could succeed more than they are. But still, I am deeply thankful for these trees from the very centre of my core.

There is no-one here right now, so I allow myself to cry. I can allow myself to cry. And I can allow myself to miss the things that I have no right to miss.

My mother is right. She's so very right. She's very smart and wise and knowledgeable and learned. She is a pillar in the community, helping all the people around her. And she has so much knowledge from so many places. She knows very well how the world works and what each person's place is within it. She knows very well what roles we are all supposed to play and how we can all play these roles. She knows very well what roles I'm supposed to play and how I can play these roles. She knows what my place is and I must believe her, I must learn from her. I must believe her and I must learn from her so that I too know what my place in the world is and how to play the role that I am supposed to play, that I am obliged to play.

She's right. She didn't have to take me in. She didn't have to take care of me and protect me. And yet she did. She did take care of me and protect me for so long. She took care of me so well. And she will take care of me again once this emergency is over. She did not have to do any of this. She was not obliged to do any of this. And yet she did it anyways. She did it anyways out of the kindness of her heart because she is just such a kind person, and she is raising her children as well to be such kind people.

She didn't raise my sisters out of the kindness of her heart. She raised them because she was obliged to. Because she was obliged to take care of them. Because she was obliged to love them. A mother is obliged to love the babies that come out of her body. A mother cannot help but to love the babies that come out of her body. Annabella and Riviera are children that she is compelled to love, that she is obliged to love. So her loving them isn't a great act of kindness, it is simply expected.

Yet her love for me is not simply expected. It is something she chose to bestow upon me. And so I owe her. I owe it to her to help her. I owe it to her to help her family. I owe her in a way that my sisters don't. And so I am obligated to make sacrifices for this family, to go hungry for this family, so that my sisters can eat. Because they are not beholden to this family in the way that I am. They do not owe my mother in the way that I do.

So I curl in on myself tighter and I cry. For some strange, unfathonable reason, I feel so very betrayed. I cannot stop feeling this way.

———

I come home from school. It's been two months since that fateful day when my mother took me to my room and told me what I would have to do. It's been two months, and I have felt myself getting weaker and weaker and weaker. I don't know how I'll be able to hold on these many long months. I don't know how I'll be able to live through it. But I have to live through it. And so I force myself on.

I get to my room, being followed by my mother.

"How was school today?" she asks me with concern dripping through her voice. She loves me. Even now, when she's been forced to make such a horrible decision, she loves me. Yet why can I not make myself believe this?

"It was okay," I reply, exhaustion dripping through my voice. School wasn't actually okay. I was so, so hungry the whole time. As I always am.

"That's good." She closes the door, and I hear the telltale click of the lock.

I've mostly been locked in my room these past two months. It makes sense. I understand that I probably wouldn't be able to stop myself from going to the fridge if I could, so locking the door just ensures that I can't do that. It just ensures that I can't steal food.

I miss being able to interact with my family. I miss it so, so very much. I didn't know that I would miss it so much. I'm all alone now. There's no-one with me. No-one to share my time with. No-one to share my experiences with. No-one to listen to and talk to and interact with. Just me, alone with my thoughts in my own room in a house that doesn't feel like it's mine, that has never felt like it was mine.

Hunger claws in my gut like a vicious, hungry beast with sharp teeth and sharp claws. It bites and scratches at all my insides. My stomach hurts so much, my ribs hurt so much, my chest cavity hurts so much. My arms and legs hurt. My head feels light and dizzy. It all hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts unbearably and I feel like screaming in pain yet I am far too weak to scream. Not that it would make much of a difference anyways. All that would happen is that I would get in trouble.

I'm helpless. I'm helpless. I'm locked in this room and I'm helpless and I can't get out. I'm trapped. I'm trapped and there's nothing I can do. All I can do is claw desperately at my mind for an escape, for a release, for a relief and a salvation that I know is not coming. The beast inside of me and me myself are both trapped, are both hungering, are both begging to be let out. But the beast in me can eat my insides. I cannot.

Though actually, I am eating myself. My body has run out of fat to digest into carbohydrates, probably. It's probably digesting my muscles and my organs and my epithelial tissue now. Burning through my cells to extract precious, precious energy. A process which has been evolved into my bloodline over millions of years.

See, it's natural, what is happening to me. My hunger is natural. It is something that my body is ready for. Something that my body has been ready for for so many years. The biological processes that guide starvation are processes that have existed for eons. They are processes that have been building and developing within us since we were just single cells, since we were just prokaryotes. So, it's okay to starve sometimes. There is nothing wrong with starving sometimes.

And anyways, because I'm starving, that means that my mother and my sisters can eat. My sisters, especially, can eat. They need to be able to eat. They need to be able to get the calories they need. I love them. I really do love them a lot. And I need to do what I can do in order to help them. If that means not eating, then so be it. I will bear it, no matter what it takes from me, no matter how much it hurts.

But part of me doesn't love my family. Part of me holds it against them, what they are doing to me. Part of me is deeply, deeply betrayed. It is rueful, jealous, bitter. I am rueful, jealous, bitter. I am full of hatred and bitterness and part of me wants to get revenge, get revenge, get revenge for what they've put me through.

But I cannot get revenge. I am simply one person with no money, no power, no property, no abilities, no resources, no support, no help. There is nothing I can do about my situation. I'm a teenaged girl locked in a room, all by myself. There is nothing I can do. Perhaps this is why my mother was able to do this to me. Because she knew I was weaker than her. She knew I couldn't fight back.

But I feel so guilty for hating my family. I feel so guilty for wanting revenge. This simply proves that I am rotten inside. It simply proves that I am unholy, ungrateful, unworthy. I know that the good and right thing for me to do would be to be strong and silently bear the burden of my situation. But for some reason I am finding myself unable to do that. I am finding myself unable to do what I know is good and right. How on earth could I be so selfish? This just proves that I don't actually deserve to eat.

I lie in my bed, which is what I have found myself doing so very often, and I cry. I think about reading a book to try to take my mind away from the hunger. I think about it, but I know it won't work. I've tried reading before. I've tried thinking other thoughts and getting my mind off of the hunger. Nothing has worked. All the time, my emotions are consumed by the all-consuming ache of hunger. Even when my mind is distracted, it doesn't matter that my mind is distracted because my heart isn't.

It's all-consuming. It consumes every part of me, taking more and more and more until there is nothing left. All I am is a constant, insatiable need, an overarching and overwhelming ache. I am burning, burning, burning. Every part of me is burning. And yet at the same time I am freezing, freezing, freezing. Every part of me is freezing. The pain is a screaming sort of pain, and I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it. But bear it I must.

And, throughout this whole time, my emotional misery has not subsided. I'm still as sad as I was before. As torn and ripped and poisoned. The poison is still seeping through me. And my mind and my heart are swept away in the poison storm. Except now, along with the emotional pain, there is also physical pain. There is physical pain that is just as strong as the emotional pain and the two types of pain are interlaced throughout each other. As two sides of the same coin.

I breathe. And the breath comes ragged and jagged. Everything inside me is ragged and jagged. Everything about me is ragged and jagged. It has been for a long, long while. As long as I can remember. But it's worse now.

Now the parts of my mind that I could suppress somewhat before are more bold and loud than they ever have been. They tell me that I am not loved, I am not loved, I am not loved. I know that I'm loved, that I must be loved. But the feeling that I am not overcomes me. The feeling that no one in the universe truly cares for me overcomes me and overwhelms me. And I try so very very hard to not listen to it. But there is nothing that I can do but for listening to it. Despite all my best efforts. But still, I tell myself that I am wrong, I am wrong, I am wrong. I tell myself that I am loved. Now if only I could believe myself.

The hunger was terrible the first day. The first day when I had no food. When I had only one meal that day. The first day I starved. It was so terrible, so painful, so unbearable. It was such violence. Violence on my body, violence on my mind, violence on my heart, violence on my soul. There was so much violence and there was so much devastation. I did not think it could possibly get worse.

But get worse it did. Every day that I went without food, the pain built up and built up and built up. It was more unbearable each day. And each day all I could do was bear it. And each day I was pushed further and further and further past the limits of what my body could tolerate. Each day I was pushed further past the limits of what I though myself capable of tolerating.

It was and still is a small kindness that I was used to unbearable pain my whole life, despite that pain being not quite as physical. It was still physical. My past emotional pain, the pain that I've been dealing with my whole life, it still had a physical aspect to it. It just wasn't as ingrainedly physical as this hunger. Though of course the hunger affects my heart and my mind as well. Sadness and hunger are both deeply physical, they are both deeply emotional, they are both deeply unbearable.

I went to school each day and nobody noticed. Nobody notices what I'm going through. I'm always quiet. I'm always subdued. So my exhaustion is not really noticed. In a way I was always exhausted anyways. A couple of teachers asked me why I had lost so much weight. I guess they noticed. I simply told them that I wasn't as hungry as I used to be. A bold faced lie. But one they believed. They didn't pursue it any further. They simply let me be. So I ate my lunch at school and I went back home and got locked in my room.

Which is where I am now, lying in my soft bed, crying.

I think about screaming, yelling, banging against the door, begging for help and food and attention. But I know that it will be pointless. I know that no help will come. It will just be a waste of energy. And I have no energy to waste. I think about what could happen if I tried to fight my mother, if I tried to run to the fridge and get food before she could lock me in my room. I know that that would be pointless as well. In my weakened state, she is much stronger than me. And I couldn't fight my mother and my sisters at the same time anyways.

There is nothing I can do about my situation. There is literally nothing that I can do.

Not that I should struggle. Not that I should fight. My mother sacrificed so much to take care of me. She gave so much to take care of me. I owe it to her to sacrifice for her back. I know this. I know this, and I tell myself this, again and again and again. But it doesn't stop the pain. Actually, it just makes the pain so much worse. It makes all the pain so much worse in all its aspects. I tell myself that I shouldn't struggle against this, but each and every day that I go hungry, the struggling and desperate part of my mind gets louder and louder, harder and harder to ignore.

I don't know what will happen when I can't ignore it any longer.

———

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I have been here for three months. I have starved myself, I have been starved for three months. And I'm going to die. Desperation is banging its fists on my insides. Desperation is screaming its throat raw in every part inside me. Hunger gnaws at my bones, gnaws at my gut, gnaws at my flesh and at my blood. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this anymore.

My mind is screaming. Screaming at me to stop this. My mind is screaming at me to make this stop. Except I can't. I can't make this stop. I don't have that kind of power. I don't have any power. All I can do is let this happen to me, no matter how desperate, no matter how infuriated I am. And I am going to die. I just know that I'm going to die.

Death looms over me. It watches everything that I do. It is like a shadow over me. It is like my shadow, trailing behind my each and every thought, my each and every action. It is a dreadful presence, constantly pressing upon my mind, constantly pressing upon my heart. Death is my only companion these days, and I do not know whether I am grateful for this companion or not. I do not know whether I am grateful for this pressing presence or not.

Part of me wants to die. Part of me wants to just let this all go. To let this jagged, tearing, grating existence go. The Universe knows that there is nothing good about life. The Universe knows that there's nothing worthwhile in existing. I feel guilty for thinking this, because I know this train of thought is not really allowed. But still, it's true, it's true, it's true. And no amount of judgement will stop it from being so horribly, undeniably true,

But despite all this, despite how hard my life is, how hard it's always been, I just cannot bear to let my life go. There is something inside me, stronger than a thousand hurricanes, that wants to live, that wants so desperately to live. It won't let me let go of this life, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much I try. I don't know where this part of me came from. I don't know if it's new or if it's always been there. But it feels older than anything ever has felt before. It feels older than I am. It feels ancient.

The part of me that wants to live tells me that I need to get out of here, I need to get out of here, it doesn't matter how, but I need to get out of here. I have to find a way to leave this place. I have to find a way to get some food. No matter what it will cost me. No matter who I will end up having to betray. No matter what I will end up having to do.

But no, I can't think that. I can't let myself think that. I have to be loyal to my family. I have to be loyal to the people who took me in and took care of me and raised me. That means I have to listen to my mother and I have to do what she told me and I have to make the sacrifices she has called upon me to make. I owe her that much. I owe them all that much. No matter how unbearably much all of this hurts, no matter what I feel in my body and in my heart and in my mind and in my soul.

But as I am lying here, in my bed, cold despite the fact that it's summer, cold despite the fact that I'm under many blankets, I ache. I ache so much. My entire body aches, but it's more, it's so much more than just my body. My entire soul aches, my mind aches, my heart aches, every part of me aches. It's as if I have thousands of clawing nails in my chest, in my stomach, in my abdomen, in my back. It's as if I am being torn apart, being disintegrated from the inside out. It's as if there is fire in my limbs, fire in my core, fire all over me that is slowly, slowly burning me away.

I feel feint and weak and lightheaded and dizzy. I am so dizzy. So, so very dizzy. It's as if I am on the verge of unconsciousness. Though I suppose that I am. I'm not just of the verge of unconsciousness, I'm on the verge of death. I'm about to die. I'm about to die. It takes so much effort and concentration to keep myself here. It takes so much effort and concentration to keep myself holding onto my consciousness and my life. It's exhausting. So exhausting. I'm exhausted. So exhausted.

I almost want to give in. I almost want to let go of my tentative hold on life. I almost want to let death take me. And so I do. I do let go. My mind is falling, falling, falling. My entire consciousness is falling, falling, falling. This is liberation. It's freedom.

I bolt upright in bed, using a heaving bellow of energy I didn't know I had. I feel fear. I feel fear. I feel an incredible surge of fear pulsing through my body, blaring through my mind, ripping through my soul. All I can feel is this fear. I can't let myself die. I can't let myself die. I can't let myself die. I don't know why. Dying would honestly be better. But I can't let myself do that.

I want to die, I want to die, I so very much want to die. But the feeling that pushes through my body and pulls me to action is my desire to live. And my desire to live might not be stronger than my desire to die, but it's the desire that gives me energy, it's the desire that forces my actions, it's the desire that makes me act. It makes me act and no other action can push through my mind and manifest as action. I need to live.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I'll die if I don't get out of here. They're trying to kill me. They're trying to kill me. It doesn't make sense why they're trying to kill me, but at the same time, it makes perfect sense. I'm not really a part of this family. I'm not really a part of these people. If they had to sacrifice anyone, they'd choose me. But it doesn't matter what the reason is. I won't let them do this.

I won't let them, I won't let them, I won't let them. They won't win, they won't win, they won't win. I can't let them win. But I wonder, will I lose?

I have to think of a plan to get out of here now. I have to get out of here now. Out of this locked room. Our of this false, sugary, heartless house. Out of this piece of land and maybe even out of this community. I have to get out, I have to get out, I have to get out. If I stay here then that will be it, I will be done. But if I get out, then that will be rebellion. That will be rebellion, that will be revolution, it will be mutually assured destruction. And I don't care. I don't care if I destroy myself. As long as I bring the plans of my not mother and my not sisters with me.

I step on my hard wooden desk. The window is as big as I am. I open the window to my room, and then step out onto the window sill, holding the edges of the frame in both hands. There is a large aspen tree brushing against the window. I reach out to grab it, and then climb it down. It feels like nothing I have ever felt before, being up in this tree. It feels like protection, like love, like comfort, like care.

The last ten feet or so I have to jump down, there are no tree branches here, only trunk. I feel fear wash over me. But I realize that if I don't jump, I will quite literally die in this tree, on my not mother's land. And so I do jump. And I hit the ground and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts so much. My arms and legs ache overwhelmingly, and I feel as if I have died.

But I haven't. I haven't died. And I won't die. Not if this desperation inside me has anything to say about it. I know that I have to get up. The thing that I have to do next is to get up and start walking. So, despite how weak and dizzy I am, despite how smothered and aching I am, I have to get up and I have to use the last remaining bits of my energy to start walking.

The last remaining bits of my energy. The last remaining bits of my energy. I know right now that my energy is slipping through my fingers. I know right now that I have barely any energy left. I don't know where my ability to move is even coming from at this point, but the point still stands that I have this ability. I have this ability still and I have to use it. I have to use it in order to get myself out of here.

So I push myself up. And I pray. I don't know who I pray to. All the gods of my past have come from the mouth of my not mother. All the gods of my past have been the gods that she believed in. And I cannot believe in those same gods. Not after everything she has done to me. Not after everything she has done to me year after year after year after year, for all of my life. But I know. I know there are better gods out there. I know there are deeper gods out there. Gods which she doesn't know about and which she will never understand. I don't know who they are, but I pray to them. I pray to them to give me strength and help me.

I start walk through the thick woods outside my bedroom window. The thick woods that are cover, for now. The woods that are help for now. The woods are strength. They have always been strength, and right now the strength they give me is pressing into me, is filling me with courage, is filling me with hope. The trees cover me, the shrubs and bushes cover me, the herbs and grasses cover me. The mosses and lichens cover me. And they all conceal my form, and give me their power, as I walk towards the thin, twisting road that connects the house to the main road.

I continue walking towards the end of the road connecting my mother's property to the main road. I do not get on this road, because I do not want to be seen. Instead, I follow the road, hiding in the tree cover beside it, in the thick tapestry of tall forest that will cover me. I thank the trees for their help, and I hear them thank me back. For what purpose I do not know why. They cover me. They protect me. They hide me from prying eyes. They are alive. They are alive. They are so very alive and they give me life. And for that I am awestruck.

I keep walking. It is beyond arduous, the simple act of walking. It is nearly impossible. But I push myself on. I push myself on and I push myself on and I push myself on. Through my exhaustion. Through my aching. Through everything inside me that is screaming at me to lay down and die. The part of me that is screaming at me to go on and live is more powerful. And so, even though each step requires tremendous effort, even though each step is an ache, each step is a feat of incredible strength, and each step requires immeasurable force, I go on.

I finally reach the place where the main road connects to the property. I am away from the little town that exists in the trees. I am on the highway now. I will miss the forest dearly but I won't miss the people who live in it. It felt like it took forever getting here. But here I am, and the next part of my journey is complete. I slip through the gate and look out at the road.

I have two choices in front of me now. I could go southwest to the city. Or I could go northeast to the highway. I think for a moment.

If I go to the city, it will be easier for me to find something to eat, some source of food, some helpful person, anything at all. It will be easier for me to beg or even dumpster dive for food. But, they'll all be expecting me to go to the city. When my mother inevitably calls the police, they will all think that I went to the city, for the aforementioned reasons. So they will search the city, not the highway. And if I take the highway, there's a lower chance of me being found. But still, there are a lot more places to hide in the city. There are many more streets, and there are many more alleys and nooks and crannies. In the highway, there is only one stretch of road.

I make a decision. I'll go to the city. Yes, maybe I'll be found. But maybe I'll find a way to live. My chances are much higher there. And there aren't really any good options. I just have to do what is the best option.

This is so unfair. It's so unfair that I have to be doing this. It's so unfair that I have to leave my whole life behind. I have to leave my home behind. And yet, yet my whole life has never truly been mine. And my home had never truly been mine either. It has only been the place I was forced to stay in, back when I didn't know any better and couldn't question what I'd been taught. I have never had a home. I have never had a life. I had only had survival and now I might not even have that. It's unfair. It's unfair. It's so very unfair.

I start crying. I know I'm wasting energy. I know I'm wasting water. But I can't help myself. It's all so very unfair, and the emotions inside me are swirling and whirling and completely maddening. I have to get these emotions out somehow. I have to communicate what I'm feeling somehow, even if I'm just communicating with the rows and rows of trees that line the road as it stretches towards the city.

I never had a way to communicate what I was feeling inside. I never had a way to communicate that, and I always had to keep it to myself. I always had to keep everything to myself. And that's so unfair. That is so deeply unfair. And I have to, I just have to let it out now. I have to tell the trees. I have to tell the grass, I have to tell the wind, I have to tell the sun, I have to tell the earth, I have to tell the sky.

The sun shines bright up above me and there are no clouds to be seen. And yet I'm so cold. I'm so cold. I'm so very deeply cold.

Yet despite that, the sky is blue above me. It is bright. It is brilliant. It is alive. And it gives me some of its energy, it gives me some of its vitality, it gives me some of its spirit, it gives me some of its life. The earth is firm and strong and full of life beneath me. It is life. It is death. It is life and death together as one. And it holds me. It supports me. It gives me strength. The sun is a fire and it fuels the fire inside me. It keeps the fire that is in me alive, so that I can stay alive. Each and every breath that I take connects me with the world, it connects me with the spirit of life that is in all of nature. And it is glorious, glorious, so much more glorious than anything I have ever experienced before.

I cry from the happiness just as much as I cry from the pain. I cry from the happiness that comes with the fact that this world loves me, this world loves me, this world loves me. The earth and the air and the fire and the water and the sun and the moon all love me, just as much, just as strongly, just as deeply as they love anyone else. And I realize this now. And, on the brink of death, I feel more alive than I have ever been.

And yet that doesn't change the fact that I have no shelter. I have no shelter. I have no food. I don't even have a jacket. I don't know how I'll get food, or shelter or warm clothes or anything else. I don't know how I'll get my needs met. I don't know how I'll crawl back from the brink of death. And all of that is unfair, it's unfair, it's so unfair. And that is part of what makes me cry. Because I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing to give anyone in exchange for food, for resources, for life.

But still, I find myself able to think about the injustices that plague me. I find myself able to call out the fact that I have nothing, even if it's in the silence of my mind. I find myself able to tell myself that I deserve equality, I deserve help, I deserve everything I need, I deserve life. I wonder why I'm able to tell myself this. Perhaps because I have come to the realization that I need to protect myself and provide for myself if I am to stay alive. Perhaps because I am desperate to stay alive, and I know that the only way I can do that is if I realize that I deserve life.

And yet I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I'm so tired. But, crying, I push myself to continue on through the pain and through the ardour and through the exhaustion.

In front of me a large truck is lumbering by. But, strangely enough, instead of going on down the road, it pulls over to the shoulder of the road, the strip of pavement that no vehicles can drive on. The truck pulls over a few yards in front of me. I wonder why, I know it's none of my business, but I can't help but to be curious.

A man gets out from the truck, and climbs down. His hair is dark like mine. His eyes are dark too. He looks straight at me, and starts coming towards me. Am I about to get kidnapped? Maybe. Fear pierces through my chest. What if he comes to capture me? I can't fight him off. I can't do anything. I'll just have to let him take me to wherever he takes me to. Dear universe, why does my life have to keep getting worse and worse?

The man stops a few paces away from me. He drops to his knees in front of me, and that makes him seem much less intimidating. The fear in my heart gets replaced by confusion.

"Are you crying?" he asks me with a soft and kind voice.

I nod my head.

"Okay. Do you want to come with me? I can drive you to the city, if that's where you're going. It's really not safe to be walking by the side of the highway like this."

I think about his offer. It will save me a lot of energy, if he drives me to the city. And I know that energy is very precious to me right now. He doesn't seem to be a dangerous man. He has a kind face and kind eyes. There is a deep sadness behind his eyes. There is a deep hope as well. I think I'm safe with him. And a free ride is probably the nicest offer I'm going to get in my life.

"Okay," I speak.

He holds my hand as we go to the truck. It's a rather large truck. He helps me to get on, into the passenger side, before getting on himself into the driver side. It's not much warmer in the truck than it is out in the road, but I get to sit down and lean against the seat and relax. And, I feel like I'll never be able to get up again, I am so deeply tired.

"My name is Shandro," the man tells me, as we drive in the direction of the city. "What's your name?"

"Zia," I tell him. "Or at least, that's what everybody calls me."

"It's great to meet you, Zia."

"It's great to meet you too."

"If you don't mind me asking, are you okay? You were walking by the side of the road, and you look so very thin."

"I ..." I wonder if I should answer honestly. I wonder if he'll turn me in if he knows. "I haven't been eating nearly enough for almost three months," I finally decide to say, truthfully.

"Almost three months? That's absolutely horrible, child. You're going to die." He reaches down and pulls out a small reusable grocery bag. "There's food in here. Tomato soup and a few sandwiches and chocolate milk. Eat it all. Please. I can't have you die."

"Isn't it your food, though?" I ask him. I will not take advantage of Shandro's generosity.

"Don't you need it?"

"I can go a few meals without eating," he replies to me, "you are going to die. You need to eat right now. Please, please eat."

"Thank you so much!" I exclaim, beyond myself in gratitude. I unscrew the lid for the flask of tomato soup and start eating it by the spoonful. I make sure to pace myself so that I don't go too fast, so that I can keep all of this precious food inside my body.

"If you don't mind me asking," he begins, "where are you going?"

"I'm running away from my home." I decide to tell him the truth. "My family, well, they're not really my family, they were starving me."

"Oh my gods, that's deeply horrible," Shandro exclaims. "I'm glad you escaped."

"You won't turn me in, will you?"

"Of course not. Do you have anywhere to go, though?"

"No." I deeply wish I could give him a different answer. But I can't.

"You could come live with me, if you wanted," he offers. "I'm on the road a lot, since I'm a truck driver. But my wife, she's a librarian, she can take care of you. We would treat you well, I promise."

"Really?" I cannot believe what I'm hearing. "But there's no way for me to make it up to you. I have nothing to pay you back with."

"It's okay," he responds. "We don't want anything in return. We don't want anything. We just want to make sure that you're okay, and that you have a home and food and people to take care of you."

"Thank you so much!"

"Think nothing of it. It's the least we could do. Anyways, we're in the city now. I can stop to get you some food. We have a few days of journey ahead of us and you need to eat and rebuild your body."

"Are you going to get some food for yourself, too?"

"I don't have the money to, right now. I didn't think to bring that much money. But I'll be fine. You're going to die if you don't eat. It's much more important that you eat."

"Are you sure?" I cannot believe what he is saying. Why would he put me, a stranger who he just met, above his own well-being? Why would he put my needs over his? Especially after he knows that there's nothing I could give him?

"Yes." His voice is pressing and absolutely certain, and I cannot say no to that.

I finish the tomato soup and bite into the sandwich. I am tired, so very tired. But it feels as if, for the first time that I can even remember, I am able to actually and truly rest.

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

I'm twelve years old. I shouldn't be working in a factory. But here I am. Here I am with all the other twelve-year-olds, with all the people older than that, with people younger than me. There are even seven-year-olds here. They should be out playing. They should be having fun. But they need to make money so that they can eat, so that their families can eat, so that the whole community can eat. I remember when I was seven. How deafening and arduous the process of being at work was.

The seven-year-olds should be at school. I should be at school. But it's not like any of us could afford that luxury. Though I suppose it's not a luxury.

I have no idea how long I've been working for. My mind screams and my soul bleeds and everything in my world is whittled down to the sharp, piercing knife point of the present. I have to do it perfectly. I have to do everything perfectly. There is no room for any mistakes, not even small ones. If I make even the tiniest of mistakes, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, my people starve.

Not that we aren't starving anyways.

I keep my eyes down on my work. And I keep my whole mind, my whole being, straining against my desires and pushing me forwards. Forwards, forwards, forwards. I do not have even a moment to take a breath. I do not have even a moment to rest. Not the smallest, tiniest, slightest of rests. I have to keep on going. Through all the pain, physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.

I sink each fabric in the glaring, screaming blue of the fabric dye in a vat in front of me. Fabric after fabric after fabric after fabric. Again and again and again and again. Until I am absolutely dizzy with it. I am already dizzy with the fumes coming off of the dye. I am dizzy and my head hurts from the noxious, poisonous smells.

I have to then swirl each piece of fabric in the fluid using my ladle. This part is a lot more technically difficult than I first thought it would be, since I have to make sure that all parts of each piece of fabric is getting soaked in the dye. I have to swirl it around fast, faster than humanly imaginable, because I have to get through all my gargantuas workload, a workload that never lets up no matter how inhumanly hard I work.

After the swirling, I have to take the fabrics out and go hang them on the drying rack, a contraption of curved metal beams with a drainage grate under it. This rack is enormous, and it is constantly bathed in dry air. This is the part that I hate the most. I have to hold the piece of fabric, the piece of fabric filled with stinging, toxic liquid, in my own hands. Sure, I'm wearing gloves, but the gloves are meagre protection as the dye seeps through them and makes my hands sting and burn in pain. I have to then walk, well actually, practically run, to the drying rack and place my load up absolutely perfectly.

My hands are always burning, always stinging, always in horrific pain throughout my whole time working. I'm not allowed to go to the one bathroom that we have in the building, that is far away, in order to wash them. It would take far too much time to walk there, not to mention it wouldn't even help if my hands are just going to get burned again the very next fabric that I have to hang up. Time is money. Literally. It's a meagre little bit of money for me and it's a whole lot of money for the people who own this factory.

I'm barely even allowed to go to the bathroom when I actually need to go to the bathroom. Because there aren't enough bathrooms. Because it's too far away. Because I have to work, work, work and work. I don't drink water, and I end up being so overheated and dehydrated, and that makes my head throb even more, makes my whole body strain. But it's not like I have a choice. This is the life that I am forced to live.

So through my aching, pounding head and my stinging I work on. I keep on working and I keep on working and it's so repetitive and monotonous that it feels like sandpaper on my brain. It feels like sandpaper on my brain and dry, waterless winds in my throat and a slow-acting poison in my heart. It feels as if my whole being is being slowly consumed by some eldritch beast that no-one has a name for. I am a ghost. I am a ghost and that is all I will ever be.

This is what life is for me. This is what I have to do twelve hours a day, six days a week. This is all that will happen to me for years and years and years and years. This is all that will happen to me until the day that I die. This is all that I have to look forwards to, all that I have to have hope for. There is no hope for me. There is no hope for any of my people. Just a fragile, faltering sort of survival that very definitely is not life.

I wish that I was dead.

———

I feel tired in my bones, tired in my blood, tired in my flesh. I feel tired in my mind, tired in my heart, tired in my soul. It's a tiredness beyond tiredness. An exhaustion beyond exhaustion. It's as if I have been hollowed out, as if all my insides have been scraped out, raw and bleeding, and all I am left with is a used-up, burnt-out shell of a person.

But I am a person. I am a person. I am a full, whole, and good person. I have to remember that. I have to remember it. For the sake of my family, my friends, my neighbours, my community, and all the people I have never met before, who toil and suffer just as I do, I have to remember it. I have to remember who I am. I have to remember who we all are.

I am walking home from the bus station, and all around me there are masses of people just like me, masses of people who are all walking home as well. It makes me feel seen, feel known, to be among them all. It makes me feel as if I belong somewhere, as if I belong with someone. And belonging is the best feeling in the world. It gives me a sweet, bright, secret sort of victory tucked away deep in my soul where no malevolent forces will be able to find it, where no malevolent forces will be able to snuff it out.

"How was work today?" an older man who lives a few blocks away, Yoshi, asks me. His eyes are full of darkness. His eyes are full of exhaustion. His eyes are full of concern. His eyes are full of love. And looking into his eyes, looking into the endlessly deep, dark pool of his brown eyes, it absolutely breaks my heart into so many pieces but it also makes me feel more whole and more seen than I could ever hope to convey.

"Oh, you know, horrible," I reply to him. Because it's the truth. And even though it's horrid, even though it's heartbreaking, he needs the truth. He deserves the truth. Of course there are a lot of places and situations where lying is the best thing to do, where it's the kindest thing to do, but this is not one of those situations. He can see the hurt, the devastation, the desecration, deep in my eyes, and no matter how much I try to hide it, he will still be able to see it.

"I'm so sorry, Miri," he replies, voice heavy. "You deserve better. You deserve so much better." There is kindness in his words. And despondence in them. I knew he was expecting my answer. But still, he grieves for me, I know he grieves for me, I know he grieves for all of us. I grieve for him too, and I grieve for all the people, for all of my people, everywhere. We all grieve for each other.

"How was your work day?" My words come out with a deeply sorrowful edge to them. An edge that cuts into both of our souls, an edge that heals us both.

"Difficult. Very difficult. I had to lug bricks up so many flights of stairs, again and again and again for hours and hours at a time." His words are haunted. But I knew that this is more or less how he would answer. I could see the devastation within him the whole time. I can see the devastation within him now.

"Try to get something to eat after you go home," I suggest to him. I know it's not a very powerful suggestion. There might not be food at his little hut. And even if there is, it might need to be cooked first. And that takes time. But still, I know how hungry people are after they come home from work. I know it because I have felt it, day in and day out, for years on end. Although, I'm hungry all the time. We all are. The hunger never really ends.

"I'll try," he responds, "but I'll have to cook first. And I have to make sure there's enough food for all of us. I have to make sure there's enough food for the kids." His voice carries so much love in it. So much selflessness. Self-sacrifice. It's incredible, it's beautiful, it's terrible how much self-sacrifice we all need to have. How much self-sacrifice we all need to have all the time.

"Of course," I answer. And what other answer could I have possibly given. Of course he needs to look after the kids first. We all do. I suppose I'm lucky, for now, since I am a kid myself and that means that everyone looks after me. But still, I try to make sure that the younger kids get to eat before I get to eat. I try to make sure that the younger kids don't go hungry, or at least not more hungry than they have to.

"You should wash your hands right after you get home," Yoshi advises me.

"I will," I tell him. And it's the truth. Thankfully, water is not as expensive as food is. Well, good clean drinking water is expensive but nobody uses that. Nobody washes with that or drinks from that. The tap water that I have at home is connected directly to the river, and I can wash away all the stinging chemicals from my hands using that water.

Suddenly I hear a baby crying. It's an incredibly mournful, desperate sound. So young and innocent and searching. It pulls at my heartstrings, pulling me towards its direction. Who is leaving a baby to cry like that? I suppose maybe their caretaker is busy.

"Do you hear that?" I ask Yoshi. He looks at me questioningly.

"Do I hear what?"

"The baby?" I respond, "do you hear the baby crying?"

"I don't hear a baby crying."

"Huh. That's weird. I'm sure I can hear it." This is strange. Very strange. I absolutely have to investigate.

I twist and squeeze my way through the crowd that moves around me, finding any path I can through the dense crowd. I let the sounds of the baby crying guide me. They keep crying and crying and crying on. Strangely enough, for some reason nobody seems to be able to hear them. Or if they do hear the baby, they are showing no signs of it. Which is absolutely impossible, since anyone would go to a crying baby.

My mind thrums with confusion and curiosity. What is happening here? I don't know. But I feel something calling me, I feel something pulling me. Something that feels like the hint of smoke that is in the evening air. Something that feels like the gray-blue clouds of the twilight sky. Something that I can't explain, that is tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart. It's beautiful and calming yet deeply melancholy at the same time. I don't know why it's happening but this feeling feels familiar, it feels familiar, it feels so so very familiar.

I find myself in front of a dark alley between two lines of huts. The space is tiny. It is so tiny. I can barely squeeze myself into it. But the crying here in front of the alley is louder than it has been anywhere else. And I can see a tiny basket inside the alley. It must be the baby. Who left a baby in here? Why did they leave a baby in here? This strange mystery is only deepening.

I squeeze myself through the alley, and it's dark in here, so dark. A warm sort of dark. A shielding sort of dark. A protective sort of dark. I have felt this sort of darkness before. But still, there is something strange and unknowable about this dark. As if it is the stillness of life waiting to happen, before the universe was created. The darkness that preceded all life. That preceded and gave birth to the spark in all of our souls.

The crying gets closer as I near the basket. So I was right, the baby is in there. The basket is a worn-out thing, with holes and bits of wood sticking out here and there. It is practically falling apart. So whoever left this baby here, it's unlikely that they were rich or middle class. It's unlikely that they had a better basket to leave their child in. They must be one of us. And more than that, they're probably not mentally well. I don't think a reasonable person could do this, though of course I don't know the whole story. And I must find them so that I can give their baby back and help them with whatever they need so that this doesn't happen again.

Finally, I reach the baby. They are wrapped in a worn-down, threadbare blanket. Poor thing. I pick them up into my arms. The second I do, the entire world seems to shift around me. It seems to grow sharper and more plunging, more aching with life. The whole world seems to be calling out for me, welcoming me, needing me. Of course, I have always felt this way before. I have always felt this way so deeply before. But this is so much deeper, so much more ever-reaching than anything I have felt before. I feel as though I have become one with all the suffering and all the hope the whole world over.

The baby is so sweet. So, so very sweet. Like all children are. Their little tiny face is poking out of the blanket that they are wrapped in. And I look at that face. I look at that face with every part of my mind, my heart, my soul. Because something inside me is singing. Something inside me is telling me that this is very, very important. Of course, all babies are very, very important.

For some reason I cannot make out the facial features of the baby at all. Their face seems to be changing, shifting in front of my eyes. Not in an unsettling sort of way. Just in an inexplicable sort of way. They look like they have the face of every baby in the world, simultaneously. They look like they have the face of every baby that has ever been in the world, the face of every person that has ever been a baby, the face of every baby that will ever be in the world. All at once. All at the same time. I know, I know that as I am looking at this baby, I am truly looking at every baby that is, has been, or ever will be.

And it's inexplicable. It's so inexplicable. It's so very inexplicable. I don't understand it at all, and yet I understand it completely at the same time. I understand that I understand it, I understand that I don't understand it, and I don't understand that I understand it as well. I am feeling emotions that I never thought myself capable of feeling, and that is saying a lot, considering how many emotions I have felt in my life.

"Baby?" I coo softly at the child, who looks up at me with big eyes that are all the colours that eyes can be, simultaneously. "How are you baby?"

The baby smiles at me. And it's such a bright, sweet, saccharine thing. I am beyond amazed by it.

"What do you want, little one?" I smile back at the baby. They look at me. And I get the feeling that they are looking deep into me, deep into me, deep into my very soul.

"Noww, nooow, noww," the baby babbles again and again. In this sweet little baby voice. In their sweet little baby voice that is all at once the voice of every baby in the world. Of course, I know the baby is not really saying "now." The baby is just babbling in baby talk. But that's what it sounds like the baby is saying to me. And these words, these words that are not words, seep into the centre of my very being. I don't know what is happening. I don't know what is happening but at the same time, a strange part of me does.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," I say to the baby as cutely as possible.

I walk towards the end of the alley, the little bundle in my arms. I don't know what I'm going to do with this child. Previously, my plan was to track down their parent or parents and ask why they had been left in the alley. But now. Now, I'm not sure the child even has parents. Unless of course you count every parent that's in the world, that ever was in the world, that ever will be in the world. But still, a baby is a baby is a baby, and they need some sort of caretakers to take care of them.

I emerge out of the alley and onto the dusty road. My arms feel strangely light, though. I look down, and there is no baby there. Just air.

———

I lie on my mat on the floor, my dad on one side of me, my three younger siblings on the other side of me, and my papa behind them. There are more people against the other wall. It's cramped here. Like it always is. But some houses are even more cramped. My aunt died a year ago, so we have a bit of space. But still, she died. She died and she was my aunt. She was practically my mother. And she died too young, too early, like all people do. And I'm still not over it. I'm not over it. I'm not over it at all. I don't think I ever will be over it.

The night is dark and hot around me. Silent, save for the blowing of the wind outside. It almost seems eerie. It almost seems otherworldly. Night is always this way. That's part of why I love it. There is no work at night. No demands. Just rest. A person gets to exist as just themselves, they get to exist just as a person and not as a work machine. Whatever else the rich took away from us, they couldn't take away the night time. It's a time that is just for us.

In this atmosphere, the thoughts of the baby return to my mind. I had pushed that experience away, thinking of it just as some sort of psychosis, as I was talking with my neighbours, with my friends. I had pushed the experience away as I was talking with my family. And I had tried to tell myself that it was nothing, it was nothing, I was just going crazy. Lord knows that many people go crazy in this world. Lord knows that there are a lot of things to go crazy about.

But in the stillness of the nighttime, I realize. The air all around me waits with promise. And I realize. That it was not a hallucination. It could not have been a hallucination. It was too real, too definite, too undeniable. No matter how strange it was, no matter how much it made no sense, there is no denying that it was amazing, and there is no denying that it's undeniable. Because I know what my feelings were at that moment. I know how strong my feelings were, how sure my feelings were. And everyone always says that if your heart is adamant about something, you better follow your heart.

So I'm going to listen to to my heart and I'm going to listen to my feelings and I'm going to let my feelings guide me in the right direction. I am going to let them guide me towards the truth, whatever it is. Because I know there is so much more to this world than what makes sense. I know there is so much more to this world than what can be understood and explained rationally. And this seems to be like one of those things.

But still, knowing that what happened did actually happen and knowing what that means are two very different things. I can't figure out what it means, though I know that it definitely does mean something. Why was the baby there? Who is the baby? How did the baby get created? Why - and how - did the baby choose to reveal themselves to me, if they did choose to reveal themselves to me? Why were they saying what they were saying?

The more I think about these questions, the more I think about my situation, the more questions I have. And the more questions I have, the more I wonder what the answers to those questions could possibly be. Everything happened but nothing was explained. I have to find out for myself what all of this means. And I have no clues to go off of.

Actually, that's untrue. I do have clues. And there are certain things that I do know. I know for example that the baby represents all of us. The baby represents all the people, past and present, and all of the struggles we are faced with. They represent all the love shared between us and all the ways, big and small, that we resist our exploitation and that we hope to resist our exploitation. That much is apparent. But what now? Why did they show themselves to me in this moment and what does that mean?

Despite my confusion, the pulse of hope thrums in me. A pulse of hope that is so much stronger than hope has ever been before. Because I know that this means something. I know that this has to mean something. And it means something profound. It means that things are happening. Things are finally, finally happening. And maybe we will finally, finally get free.

I try to stay up late thinking. I want to stay up late thinking. But exhaustion and drowsiness settles over me and I cannot fight it anymore as I am pulled down into sleep. Though I suppose that is for the best. I have work tomorrow, and if I am sleepy at work, it will be even more hellish than it already is.

———

I am surrounded by friends both old and new. People I've known for a while and people I've just met. We are all together, gathering after work. We are all crowded together, sitting on the floor of Karlium'a hut. And I'm aching with tiredness. As I always am after work. I'm aching with hurt. And, like always, the steady gnaw of hunger twists in my gut. Twists in all of our guts. But, surrounded by people, surrounded by my people, all of that is soothed. And I feel, I feel at home here. I feel like I belong here. And being a part of this milieu makes me feel like my life is returning back to me, at least a little bit.

There is Daria here, a woman in her mid thirties I haven't met before. She has skin the colour of river clay and hair the colour of darkness. There is Hadashi, and I know him. He's in his twenties and he has thick, curly hair that shines like a halo when the light hits it.

There's Valimem, and they're in their twenties too, and they have the darkest, largest eyes I have ever seen on an adult. Arili is in her early thirties, yet she looks so much older. Her eyes do at least. Cambri is in their forties, and they have wrinkles around the edges of their eyes. Mallee is a teenager and she has a beautiful broad nose and round eyes. The two other children that are here are Kallari, aged seven, and Amori, aged five. They're both so incredibly cute. Amori cannot pronounce his Ks and he loves monsters and fantasy creatures. Kallari always tries to make sure that everything is fair, though she's so young. And of course there's little baby Rosalee, with her big eyes and bright babbling, whose face I saw in that mysterious baby.

"If you could talk to any of our ancestors, who would it be?" Mallee asks.

"I want to talk to the people from before. Before the place got all bad." Amori's voice is so sweet.

"Ooh that's cool," Valimem pipes up, "why would you want to do that?"

"Because," the child starts, drawing out the word, "then I could know how everything was!"

"That's nice!" Cambri cheers. "I would love to know that too. Sometimes it feels like this life is all there is."

"Aww don't say that," Daria presses, "there's so much good stuff that we will have one day. I promise."

"How about you, Kallari," Hadashi asks, "who would you want to talk to?"

"I think maybe someone who made the bad people scared." There is something dark and sharp in her words. She is far too young to be thinking that way but she is thinking that way anyways.

"Ooh that's a good answer," Arili exclaims, "we could learn some tips and tricks from them!"

"What tricks?" Mallee asks.

"Like maybe how to steal!" Amori exclaims, "I would love to know how to steal!"

"Ooh, that's a good one!" Valimem's words are bright, with an exhausted undertone to them.

"I wanna learn to break thinks!" Kallari exclaims.

"Breaking things is fun," Hadashi agrees, "but if you do it you'll get in trouble."

"Hey un ... guys," I begin, not knowing how to start. My voice is cautious and fearful. It makes everyone's eyes turn to me.

"What is it?" Cambri asks. "Are you okay, sweet Miri?"

"I think I'm okay. At least, I hope so. But something really strange happened on my way home from work yesterday."

"What was it?" Arili questions, "tell us so that maybe we can help you,"

"Well," I begin, "I heard the sound of a baby crying from an alley. So I go there and pick the baby up, right?"

"Yeah," she responds.

"Well, the baby had the face of like, millions of different babies, all at the same time. I could tell, I knew in my heart that this baby was, it was all the babies ever. I don't know how I knew. I just knew."

"Trust your intuition child," Daria tells me, "it's there for a reason. It's saved us all before."

"Yep. I will," I reply. "So, I start to leave the alley with the baby. To maybe find out where they came from. But, the second I leave the alley, the baby is gone."

Everyone is silent for a while. Well, except the kids, who are talking to each other.

"Do you know the story of how the universe was invented?" Mallee asks me, voice dead serious, laced with awe.

"Of course I do," I tell her, "everyone does."

"But do you really remember it?" she asks.

"What are you talking about?" My voice has a slightly incredulous tint to it.

"Miri. Your name." Valimem's voice is dead serious.

"What about my name?"

"You were named after the Mother of All," they answer.

"Yeah, Mama Miria, what about her?"

"Your Aunt June named you, didn't she?" Daria asks.

"Yeah she did, what about that?"

"I wonder why she named you that way."

"Anyways," Cambri commences, "I think things will become more apparent if we refresh the story.

"Once upon a time there were no people. No animals. No plants. There was no earth, no sky, no fire, no water. There was only Mama Miria, and within Her She held infinite possibilities." I know the story that Cambri is telling. I know it well. But it's always nice to hear it again.

"Miria was lonely," they continued, "She was incredibly lonely. So She thought to Herself that She would create a being that could keep Her company. So She looked deep within Herself and saw the endless possibility that was laid in there. And She became pregnant with a child. She waited many long months before She gave birth to that baby. And who was the baby?" Cambri's voice has a light edge to it.

"The universe!" the children both exclaim joyfully. I smile.

"Yes, the universe," Cambri agrees. "And what was the universe? It was everything that has ever been created, everything that is created, everything that was created. It is everything that will have the Spark of Life within it. And everything ever was coalesced into one thing, into one sweet, precious baby that was every baby ever to come, all together, all at once.

"And Mama Miria, of course, took care of the baby, protecting it and nurturing it and doing everything to help the baby grow up big and strong."

"Like my mama!" Kallari exclaims.

"Yes," I tell her, "just like your mama."

"But all was not well," Cambri continues, "for evil forces found the baby and took it away from Mama Miria's arms. But She spends every moment desperately searching for Her sweet child."

There is silence again after this.

"I think," Hadashi starts, "Mama Maria found her child."

So ... what in the world am I supposed to do now? Now that I have to be the Mother of All? I'm only twelve.

———

I'm in a Resistance meeting. Because this is exactly what I need to do as a mother who wants to protect her child. This is exactly where I need to be. All around me are people who want to bring down the rich, who want to fix the world. People who are hungry, people who are tired, people who are over-worked. People who are angry about it all and would do anything to take a stand. And I have to fix the world. I have to fix the world. I have to heal my child.

"We have rights. Our rights go so far beyond merely staying alive. They encompass everything that is necessary for a good life, one of dignity and respect." The passion in Remini's voice is intoxicating. Her eyes are dark and her eyelashes even darker. She's in her twenties, like most resistance members, and she puts so much thought into everything she says.

"Exactly," Kalavi echoes, "they think that they do so much by giving us not enough food, and not enough water, but dear universe, they're the ones who should be grateful. Grateful that we haven't fucking killed them yet." His dark lips purse in disgust as he finishes talking. There are cheers all around us and I join in. It feels rebellious. But it feels wrong, somehow. Incomplete, somehow.

"They should be grateful that we fucking do everything for them!" Kalkiti softly exclaims, "we grow their food, we cut and sort and process and package their food, we make all their fancy clothes and pretty jewelry and nice furniture. We make their books and their toys and their big, big houses. And their televisions and music players and everything else. It's all us. We do all the work." Her skin is light, her face is round like the moon, and her broad nose crinkles in disgust.

"They never look at it that way though," Cakvi states ruefully, "they only see who is getting all the money for all the work that we do. And then that person gets all the credit. That's how it works, for the rich. They see a rich dirt stain in a position of power over everyone and suddenly that rich dirt stain is responsible for all the work their thousands of workers do." Cakvi's tone is dark from their harsh life. Their skin is dark from the harsh sun. And I can relate. I can relate so well.

The conversation swirls around me for a while. People try to get me to talk. I don't want to talk right now. I just want to hear what everyone has to say. There is so much anger all around me. Of course, there is always anger all around me but this anger is so much more flaming, so much more tangible. There is also deep insight all around me. Also not new, but it's all so concentrated, undiluted, all together at once. I don't know if I can take it all or not.

But there is one big problem. For all the insight and analysis and explanation of all that's happening, there aren't any actual plans for how to stop everything that's happening. I knew I wouldn't walk into a revolution on its way to being planned. But damn, there seems to be no hope here. No hope of things getting better. No plans of how to make things better.

"What should we do about all this?" I pipe up. "I know it's not fair. All of it is very much not fair. But how do we change it? Any plans for that?"

"We don't have enough power yet, to start a revolution," Diani explains to me, kindness in his eyes, "we couldn't face them and win. We plan crimes, heists, stuff like that. But all that is pretty small time. It mostly just keeps people alive, it doesn't really change the game."

"We have to lay the emotional and intellectual foundation for a revolution before actually doing it," Favi explains, a hand reaching up to her thick hair. "Revolution can't happen unless people want it, unless people know we deserve it, unless people know that what's happening needs to be stood up against. We have to build anger within people. We have to build rage and resentment and, most importantly, hope."

"What you're doing is very important," I acquiesce, "It's very important and good. We do need to lay the groundwork for a revolution first. But do you guys have hope?" I ask. "Do you guys thinks revolution is actually going to happen?"

"It will." Jai answers, "but we're not sure when."

"I think ... I think the revolution needs to happen now. Or soon. I think that we're powerful enough. That we have what it takes. Right now."

"Why do you think that?" Cakvi asks.

I explain to them what happened to me on that fateful day, coming home from work. I explain the baby. I explain the late night I had thinking it all over. I explain the conversation I had with my friends and neighbours. And I explain the horror and glory of the realization, and of the time I spent going over and over in my mind what this all could mean. They stare at me with awe, with joy, with hope in their eyes. And when I'm done, there is a spontaneous round of cheering echoing through the whole room.

"The Mother found Her baby!" Diani exclaims.

"But what do we do next?" Remini asks.

"We get more people," Favi states. "We get them to join us."

———

"The world will be better only if we all try to make it better," I speak out into the room of people gathered around me. They all heard my story already. And they generally agreed that the experience means something, that it means something important, and that right now is the time when great things will happen.

"Things can only happen if we work for them," an older woman named Ravi speaks out to the crowd, the children looking up at us wide-eyed and the babies crying or cooing from the arms of the people holding them. "We have a chance right now. We have a chance to set things right. But we have to go for it. We have to use this chance and not let it slip away."

"We have to fight!" little Alixi exclaims, their young voice dead serious, "and defeat the bad guys!"

"We have to defeat the bad guys!" I echo, "you're so right!"

"But how are we supposed to do anything?" Maliki asks, his dark curls shining in the dim candlelight lighting up the room. "There's no logical, practical reason for us to have power."

"There doesn't have to be one," I reply. "We will find our power if we all look. If we all have faith. If we all create opportunities out of what we have. Sure, we might not know how we'll win right now. But if we keep looking, if we all work together, we'll find a way to win."

"Exactly," Navai agrees, "we have to try. Because the Mother found Her child again. The Mother found Her child. And we're all the Mother. And we're all the child. We have to do what any mother would do and help the child, help each other, by any means necessary."

"We have to be a good mama," young Jini agrees, "so that all the kids can be happy."

"What's so loving about all getting ourselves killed in a failed revolution?" Balvi asks, his voice tinged with morose darkness but also with repressed hope.

"The future," eleven-year-old Clari explains, "the future people will live a better life. The universe will go back to being good, being fair, being the way it's supposed to be. We'll do it for the future and we will win."

"Yeah," Ravi echoes, "we need the future generations to have better lives than us. The universe will be hurting, will be wanting, will be wrong, if things go on the way that they do. If we can make things better for future generations, if we can get rid of the evil in the world, that would be good."

"Besides," Maliki adds in, "it's better to die on your feet that it is to live on your knees. Standing up against the rich, even if it kills us, is so much better than this desperate, aching sort of life that we're all living."

"Exactly," I agree, "And we will win. I know we'll win."

"And how will joining the resistance help?" A young woman named Nellin asks.

"Because," I answer, "if we're all in the resistance, we can all communicate with each other. We can all plan together, share ideas, share knowledge, and build ourselves up into a force to be reckoned with."

———

I stand on the corner of the narrow, dust-paved road, scores of people passing me by. I have lookouts who can tell me if any cops are coming by. But right now I'm safe.

"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask the weary travellers as they pass by, "we meet at every house number ending in 4, from 7-9 on Saturdays."

People look at me. They smile. Like I'm a sweet child selling flowers on the roadside. I guess I am a young child. But I don't feel like one. I haven't felt like a child in years. There is a weariness about me and a darkness. My life has never been my own. Of course, I don't want it to be my own. But I don't want to belong to the rich either.

Hopefully I will be able to give my life to the people I want to. Soon.

"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask.

"Sure," an older woman with wrinkles around her kind eyes tells me, "but only if you tell me why a kid as young as you is out here doing something so dangerous."

"I'm fine, ma'am. I chose to be out here."

"You be careful, though. You're too young to find yourself in trouble."

"Thanks for the concern." I smile at her, and she smiles back, ruffling my hair before she leaves.

I keep on telling people about the resistance meetings. I know that this is dangerous. But I also know that no-one will turn us in. No-one will tell the authorities about us. Because there is a loyalty among all the poor people here, among the people who have to sell their days and and their life's blood in order to put not enough food on the table. We all would die for each other.

The authorities likely won't torture us anytime soon either. Not before we plan our our next action. When the weapons are in our hands, the high-caliber, lethal weapons that can bring the end of the whole system as we know it, then we will be free. We will be free to rebuild a world of sibling hood. And the baby will finally be safe.

"Will you come to a resistance meeting?" I ask the person passing by in front of me. "We meet from 7-9 on Saturdays, in each hut ending with a four. We're going to change the whole world."

"How are you planning to change the whole world, little girl?" they ask me.

"We are planning to bring it all down."

"Bring it all down? But how will we do that? We have no power."

"We have more power than you think. A miracle has happened. Come to the resistance meeting and you will find out what it is."

"Okay, okay. I'll go to the meeting. But you guys better have the strength to back up your words."

"We'll be able to back up our words, just you see."

"Okay. I really hope it's time to finally change things. But I don't think we'll be able to, unfortunately."

"I know how you feel. I've felt that way before. We've all felt that way before. But you have to have hope."

"Hope is good," they agree, "but recklessness is not. I would advise you to be careful and to know what you're doing before you try anything dangerous."

"We will be careful, I swear. We know what the stakes are. We know what the consequences of failure are. We know all the lives that are on the line."

"I want to join you. I really do."

"Then do it. Then join us."

"I will."

They shoot me a tired, enamoured sort of smile, and I shoot them a strong, confident smile back. This day is going well.

"Do you want to join the resistance?" I ask the next passers-by. "We are planning something huge, and we need for everyone to get involved."

———

I'm coming home from work again. I am beyond exhausted. I do not feel like a human anymore. I never feel like a human after work. All I feel like is an empty vessel, a hollowed-out, spectre-thin thing that exists to suffer and for nothing more. I smile at the people around me. And they smile back. But all of our smiles are harrowed. All of our smiles are haunted.

All at once I hear the same sort of crying that I heard before. Many-voiced and woeful. Young and fragile. I follow the sound through the twisting alleyways again, just as I had done before. And once again I find the world baby, the baby which is everyone and and all of nature, all at the same time. The baby which is beautiful, beautiful, so infinitely beautiful. The baby which I want to give everything to.

Immediately, my heart is overcome with more love than I can fit into my body. It seeps out of me, and into this baby, this baby with so many features, so many faces, who I take into my arms and cradle gently. I feel as though my entire being is exploding out into the entire universe, and I am becoming one with everything everywhere. I want to protect this child. I want to protect this child.

I so very desperately want to protect this child. But I can't.

Not yet at least.

I cradle the small being close to me, until they stop crying. They are much quieter now, at peace since I picked them up, since I held them close, since I let my love and my proximity and my intimacy seep into their tiny, needy form.

They were lonely, so lonely out here in the alley, uncared for by the world, left on their own to suffer. But now they have me. Now they have all my family, all my neighbours, all my friends, all my coworkers, everyone in this world. Now we will all look out for them.

The young one is in my arms, and reaches up to grasp my nose with their tiny little fingers, with their tiny little hand. This is so infinitely adorable. I cannot help but laugh. It's sweet. It's so very infinitely sweet. Sweeter than anything could ever be and my heart is soaked through with glory, is heavy from my joy. Just looking at this child gives me so much joy.

"Are you going to stay with us?" I ask softly, looking at the bundle of joy my arms. "Or are you going to disappear the moment I walk out of this alley again?"

The baby flaps their hands in response.

"Stay with us," I plead with them, my voice gentle and full of love. "Stay with us, and let me show you to everyone, so that we all can see you and believe."

The baby makes an "aah" sound in response. I don't know how much they are understanding, but the big, round eyes look solemn, look thoughtful, look sad.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go." I get up from the ground I am kneeling on, slowly standing up and making my way to the sunlight of the streets. The baby is playing in my arms, babbling some adorable nonsense. I hope they'll be here when I leave the alleyway.

I take the final, tentative step into the main street. And still there is a light heaviness in my arms. And still the baby is cooing close to my heart. I break out into a beaming smile, and I go to the nearest person I can find.

"Do you see this baby?!" I exclaim in joy. And his ghost-like features light up in awe, and in hope.

——-

"Look at this child!" I proclaim to the resistance fighters gathered around me. I am not in the resistance meeting that I am usually in, the one in my neighbourhood. Instead, I am two neighbourhoods over, telling the people there of what I heard, what I witnessed, and what I experienced in my life.

The baby is in my arms now. But I pass the child on to Amine, who will pas them on to other people. It is important that everyone sees the child, that everyone holds the child. Not just the people in the resistance, but all of the people of the world. I realize that it will probably take about a year of constant travelling, a year of tired hunger, of new faces, in order to give everyone a chance to interact with the child. But it will be worth it. It will be so very worth it.

There aren't even that many people anyways. I'll be able to come home to my family after each day of travelling. And my family is okay with my "decision" to not work, even though that means that my whole community will be hungrier than they would have been if I did work, because they know that right now, everything is changing. The whole world is changing.

"I ... I'm amazed," a person named Davelo tells me.

"I am too, believe me, so am I," I respond.

"This is a sign. It has to be." Teenaged Arcadia's voice is full of joy, full of passion. She's holding her own baby, but looking at both the babies in this room, babies which are actually the same baby.

"So ... what does this mean? Does it mean that we will win?" Fig asks. He is trying to not get overly excited. He knows how dangerous that can be. But he can't help himself.

"Well," Amari starts, "we all know the legend. We all know that when the baby and the mother are reunited, it means that the world will go back to being fair again, being together and being free and being equal."

"Are you the mother, Miri?" Biri asks me, eyes full of wonder. "You are named after Mama Miria after all."

"I used to think that," I reply to him, "but I don't think so anymore. These past few weeks, I've been going around and seeing everyone. And the way everyone interacts with this child, the way that everyone loves them, I'm starting to think we're all the mother."

"That's very poetic," Davelo speaks out to us. "We are all the mother are we are all the child. And now that we are reunited with ourselves, now that the mother is reunited with the child, a new age will come."

"Are we sure, though?" Kamima asks, eyes darker than storm clouds and more solemn than the twilight. "Are we sure that we are on the verge of a prophecy?"

"We all know the stories," Manoni tells us, wrinkled eyes gazing into our souls.

"We all know how they come to fruition."

"But how?" Mamon asks. "How are we going to take on the whole system?"

"With effort," Arcadia answers. "By trying our best and doing everything that we possibly can in order to create change. We all have to try our best. All of us. Because the prophecy can only come to fruition if we work towards it."

"How right you are," Biri pronounces.

———

I am with my family. My dad, Amerni, my three little sisters, Cala, Rashi, Tessa, my papa Yonas, my "aunts" Marvi, and Carla, my three younger "cousins" Sali, Baro, and Lai, and my twin brother Davi. We are all sitting close together, on the floor of our hut, sharing in each other's warmth. We are passing the baby around, the baby that the community has taken to calling Uni. They are reaching their arms out, wanting to be held by all of us. It's cozy. Really cozy. It's sweet. Really sweet. I can almost forget about how hungry I am, how aching I am, or how my throat hurts.

"Are we going to be able to fight, too?" Sali asks.

"You can if you want to," my dad replies. "But it will be difficult. It will be beyond difficult. War is no place for a child."

"But why can Davi and Miri go?" Cala asks.

"Because," I reply, "We're much older than you guys."

"You can fight if you want to," Aunt Marvi tells the younger kids, "but war is not fun. It's not fun at all."

"But I want to fight!" Lai whines.

I think about how horrifying it would be if my younger siblings and cousins, and all the little kids all around actually, fought. They're just babies, really. They don't belong in a war. They don't belong in all the horror and danger that accompanies war. They don't deserve to die, they don't deserve to have to kill people, they don't deserve any of the brutality of war.

But then again, none of us deserve the brutality of war. And yet, we're all getting ready for it anyways. We're all looking forwards to it even, despite the fact that we're dreading it also. We are all anxiously awaiting the day when the pot finally boils over.

Why?

Because it's a chance to stand up against the rich.

They've been working us to death for years, giving us not enough to survive, making us waste all of our precious energy at their precarious jobs. I have seen so many deaths over the years. My aunt. My neighbours. My baby brother. People at work, who get into accidents. Unhoused people who freeze in the cold winters. I'm sick of it. I'm so sick of all of it.

But now, here, we have a chance to make the rich finally, finally see us. We have a chance to make them finally, finally fear us, instead of us just fearing them. We have a chance to show them that we are human beings, we always were human beings, and we are far more human than they will ever be. We have a chance to show them that we are much stronger than they ever thought we were.

And we have a chance to create a better future. A future where all of this suffering will not happen. A future where nobody has to suffer anymore. We can create a future where each child grows up healthy, grows up strong, grows up well-educated, and with time to play and have fun. We can create a future where everyone looks forward to happiness and peace in their lives. Where no child or adult has to work like a slave. Where we all take care of each other, we all really and truly take care of each other no matter what.

And that's worth fighting for. It's worth killing for. It's worth dying for. It's worth anything and I understand why I want to join the war. I understand why the children want to join the war.

"It's important to have people who live, who take care of the new generations," my papa tells the kids. "It's just as important for you guys to save yourselves so that you can create the future."

"I'll miss you guys!" Tessa moves to hug me, and I cry as I hug her back. It's horrific, how much sacrifice this is going to take.

———

I'm walking along the streets, streets only occupied by young children, by toddlers, by a couple of babies. Everyone else is at work. The adults. The teenagers. The older children. There's no-one left to take care of the young ones. They have to take care of themselves. It's horrifying. But it's a horror that we've all been forced to grow used to, over the years. It's a horror we are forced to deal with.

I carry baby Uni. And their weight is not heavy in my arms. Their weight is never heavy in my arms. I say hello to the groups of children who I pass by. They say hello to me back. I'm going to the far end of the city, where the agricultural workers have their huts. I'm taking baby Uni to them, so that they can spend time with the baby and see what the child is like. Uni is sucking their thumb.

I think as I walk. More specifically, I think about how I haven't seen a single police officer during the whole year that I've been with Uni. Why is this the case? Usually I see police officers here and there as I walk through the streets, as I go on with my life. Usually it's a terrifying experience, but an experience that I am accustomed to dealing with nonetheless, as anxiety-inducing as it always is.

But there have been none anywhere near me this past year. While I cannot help but be grateful, I also wonder, why is this the case? What is going on?

"Hi," I sing-sing kindly to a five-year-old boy. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"I'm good. I have a question though. Did you happen to see any police officers here?"

"A time ago there was a police, but there's none now."

"Okay. Thank you. How long ago?"

"Maybe ... more than 15 minutes?"

"Okay, thanks so much. Good luck, buddy."

"Good luck!"

Okay, so, fifteen minutes or more ago there was a cop. But not right now. So, there was a cop before I showed up here, before Uni showed up here. But they left just as I came to this area. Interesting.

———

I take baby Uni to scrap yards. It's a horrible place for a baby, filled with so much garbage and jagged metal. But then again, what isn't a horrible place for a baby? I make these trips daily, and I am always accompanied by different kids. We have heaps of blankets with us, blankets borrowed from neighbours. We are confident that no guards will be after us. Because Uni is just such a loud baby and the guards can't stand their loudness.

We can also get through the gates of the scrap yard easily, gates that are otherwise closed to all the public, because the people who stand vigil by the gates leave once they hear the baby for too long. The child is our key. Our key to anything. And for this we are incredibly grateful to them. For this we thank them everyday.

In the scrap yard, we find pieces of metal that are shiny, that are new, that are not rusted. More importantly, we look for pieces of metal that have sharp edges and could be easy to cut. These will make our weapons. Weapons that the rich do not want us to have. Weapons that we make from the garbage that they throw away, from the incredible waste that they generate.

We wrap these medium-sized pieces of metal, usually about the length and width of my forearm, in the blankets that we borrowed. We understand that it looks suspicious, walking through the city with a bunch of blankets wrapped up in our arms. But we also know that as long as baby Uni is with us, no guards will accost us, for they'll all be too afraid.

Day after day after day after day, this plan works. We build up piles and piles of metal sheets. We find stronger bits of metal, with sharp edges. We cut the sheets of metal with the pieces of stronger metal, after using precious candles to soften the spots we want to cut along. We bend the newly-cut pieces. And we distribute them as spears for the people to use and get good at.

——-

Now is the moment of truth. I am walking towards the armoury, with a handful of other children. Cassi is seven, Racha is nine, Amio is six, Lai is eleven, and Olem is thirteen like me and has baby Uni in his arms. I have baby Clara in my arms. Nobody will suspect a group of children like us. Of course, the rich hate poor children like us, they suspect poor children like us, but they do not think us capable of of any great deception, or anything that requires a lot of thinking. And of course, they don't know about the World Baby. They don't know the power that the baby has. The power that all babies have.

I am fizzing with excitement. It is bubbling up hot and sweet in my chest, in my belly, in all parts of me. My mind is racing with equal parts anxiety and anticipation. Anxiety is a cold stone in my insides. Anticipation is making my soul light and in flight like a bird. And I feel as though I have the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. Though I guess I do. We all have the weight of the entire world on our shoulders. But we all have each other. And we can carry the load together. We can share the load together. And that makes the heavy weight so much lighter.

I am buzzing. I am buzzing. Everything inside of me is buzzing. I am overjoyed. There is so much that could go right. This might be the beginning. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the start. The end of our poverty, our brutal, degrading, dehumanizing work. This could be the start of true freedom, a freedom that we could all share together, that we could all share with each other. It could be the start of a world where all people are seen as equal, are treated as equal, are seen as one. We all hide in each other.

And yet. Yet. There is so much that could go wrong. We could fail. We could be killed. We could all be killed in punishment of our actions, in punishment of our rebellion. This could be the end of our people as we know them. This could be the end of everyone who's lived and died and worked and yearned and loved and hurt and cried and smiled and laughed under the heel of the rich. This could mean the end of our whole class as we know it. And with it, the end of all of our stories, the end of all of our songs, the end of all of our teachings and our histories and everything we pass on to the new generations. It all might be gone. The new generations might be gone.

Yet I don't think that will happen. I don't think we will fail. None of us think that we will fail, though the possibility looms in each of our minds, pressing us to make sure we put our full effort into this plan. I have faith. I have faith in baby Uni, I have faith in myself, and I have faith in all my people. All my people have faith in the baby, all my people have faith in each other. We have seen the signs, and we know that the time is now. The time to rise up. The time to change everything.

The children all around me have determination hidden deep in their eyes. They have rage. They have hate. And they have love. They all have a deep, untethered, primal, and all-reaching love in their eyes. A love that encapsulates themselves and is so much bigger than themselves at the same time. A love that has existed for as long as their souls have existed in the place beyond life, which is to say time without beginning. A love that will exist for as long as their souls will exist in the place beyond life, which is to say a time without end.

I look into their eyes and that gives me strength. I look into their eyes and it gives me hope. If soothes the sharpest edges of my cutting fear and leaves me able to go on, able to do all that I am meant to do, all that we are meant to do together. They are so determined. So determined. And I echo their determination. And I echo the power that they have. The power that we all collectively have, within ourselves, shared amongst ourselves. The power that will set us free.

The babies coo in our arms. They are adorable. And, looking at them, it makes the whole thing worth it. It makes our whole mission worth it. Because if these babies can have a better life, then that's all that we need, then that's all that we need from anyone. And it will make everything worth it. Besides the babies cooing, there is no sound from any of us. We all communicate in looks, in long-held eye contact, in the dead set of our mouths. Because we cannot give our plan away. We cannot let anyone know what it is that we are up to, besides all the people who already know and will keep the secret with us. We cannot let any of the rich, any of the guards, anyone with power in this society that we live in know what we are really up to. So we keep our silence, we keep our silence like a promise, and we walk together to the armoury.

We stop a slight bit aways from the armoury, away from the guards on all the many watch stations of the armoury. We sit down on the road, the dusty road that is unoccupied at the moment, except for us. It's not suspicious. It's not suspicious at all. Many children play in the road. It's the one place we have that is outside and under the sky. Even adults gather in unused roads often, gossiping and chatting about small things, things that the guards would not be suspicious upon hearing. It's slightly strange that we're doing this in the evening, when most children are much closer to the residential part of town. But there are huts near us. We're not straying too far away.

We sit down on the road, our worn, dirty clothes sitting on the dust. And we pass the babies around to each other. They giggle and coo, happy at being given attention and cuddles. And this is good. This is very good. We smile at them, and coo back. And, seeing our smiles, they giggle even more. It's adorable. It's so adorable. And it's so purposeful. So incredibly purposeful. These kids are helping us fulfill our destiny.

"Peek-a-boo!" Amio exclaims, and the babies scream in delight. We all join Amio in their peek-a-boo game. We each take turns covering our faces and uncovering them. The babies absolutely love it. They have no sense of object permanence yet, so they literally think our faces are disappearing and coming back into existence. This is adorable. Clara copies is, putting her face in her hands and then moving her hands away. Uni sees this and squeals. Perfect. This is so very perfect.

We continue playing our game for a while. It feels like it has been forever. Because the pressure digs into us, grates against us. It feels like it has been forever but I know that realistically, it probably has been only a few minutes. As the minutes go on, the babies get louder and louder. They get more and more excited. And I don't know if they're doing this on purpose or not. I don't know if they understand the gravity of this situation, I don't know if they understand the importance of what they are doing. But, looking at their faces, I think they probably understand, in their own, special, childish baby type of way.

I look around, as if in mild interest, at the scene all around me. The guards are getting increasingly agitated. All of them. I can see it in their faces. The growing trepidation. The discomfort. The way they adjust the expensive collars of their expensive black guard suits. The way that they look at each other as if wanting an explanation. They way that they fidget with their hands and pace in front of the doors that they're supposed to be protecting, getting up from their chairs.

They'll be gone soon. They'll be gone so very soon. And so will all the guards resting inside, where the windows carry in the sounds of our merrymaking.

Lai takes baby Clara and lifts her high in the air, and then brings her back down in a swift motion. Oh my gosh, it must be exhausting doing that. She's hungry. She's tired. She doesn't have the energy for all this. But anyways she does it, because babies love it, because nothing can make a baby scream like doing this. She goes to baby Uni afterwards, and lifts them up in the air and brings them backdown. The young child screams so loudly.

At this moment, the guards all walk away hastily. They do not say a word to anyone. They do not even look each other in the eyes. They simply speed away as fast as a walking feet can carry them, looks of deep disturbance in their faces. Lai is still lifting the babies. I don't look at the guards straight on. That would be too suspicious. But I do keep track of them through the corner of my eye. We all do, trying to keep it all as down-low as possible.

I take over Lai's job. She must be exhausted by now. She needs her strength for the battle to come. I play with the babies and yes, yes it is very tiring. But also, it's very rewarding. Seeing the babies happy, seeing them so full of life, so full of life despite the fact that they're immersed in death, it's beyond joyous. It's beyond worth it. And I understand, now, how parents put so much effort into their children even after being bone-weary from their long days of work. I understand now how seeing your child smile is worth anything and everything.

The guards inside the building now also leave. I don't see how many of them go, since I'm still busy with the babies. But I trust that the other children are looking into it, that they're seeing how many guards left and are ensuring that there are probably none left inside the building. I trust my friends. I trust my people. All of them. The guards on the roof also climb down and walk away.

I pass the babies to Olem, and he plays with them as well, making them scream and laugh and giggle and coo. All the other kids keep a lookout for any of the guards coming back. Right now we are all not even trying to hide the fact that we're looking. Cassi and Racha get up and walk all around the building, peering down all the streets surrounding the building.

"They're gone," the two young children tell us.

Amio then whistles, a sharp, piercing sound. A sound that is not too out of place in the busy, chaotic world that we inhabit. If any of the guards heard it they would simply attribute it to a child being loud. Which is exactly what this is. It's a child being loud. But the people lined up in the huts all around, who are standing close to each other, crowded and awaiting, they know what this whistle means. They know the many layers of deep, simple, complex symbolism behind it. They know that this is our signal, the one we all agreed upon for its simplicity and unassumingness.

The first thing that happens is that people hang up blankets to dry in front of all the streets, a few blocks away from the the armoury, blocking off sight of the armoury from the streets on all sides. Hanging up laundry in and of itself is not suspicious. But this is suspicious, to have so much laundry handing up at the same time, at such a precise location. Fortunately for us, if any of the guards who patrol the streets try to investigate this strange occurance, they will get too close and hear baby Uni, and then they will go away. Of course, they could call for backup. But we all doubt that they would do it, because then they would have to report to their superiors that they were afraid to go investigate because they heard a baby. They would not do that, because it makes no sense, because of the embarrassment, because of the blow to their ego. They would probably rather save their own skins and ignore it. That's the hope we're all hedging everything on anyways.

People flood out of the huts that encircle the armoury. It was really rather stupid of the rich people to make their armoury right within the poor neighbourhood. Well, what's stupid on their part is a godsend on our part. Perhaps literally a godsend, by the way. The Mother of All has been sending us a lot of blessings as of late. Blessings that we would do well to make the most out of. Blessings that we are making the most out of.

All of us kids keep on playing with the babies, making them be as loud as possible, as the adults and teenagers around us are walking up to the armoury. The strong doors are locked with strong, sturdy locks. But my people have a secret. The art of lock-picking has been passed down through the resistance for generations. And now, everyone who is in the resistance has their piece of wire, and has unfettered access to the locks, no worries of guards coming to arrest them.

When they finally get the doors open, there is an audible sigh of relief from everyone. So far the plan is working. So far the plan is working perfectly. I dreamed that we would get this far. I dreamed that we would win. But there was always a part of my mind that always told me that no, we would not make it. We would not make it. We would not make it. Now, that part of my mind is weaker than it has ever been. It is more quiet than it has ever been. And centuries of oppression which hammered into me that I am nothing are being lifted right in front of my eyes.

The kids and I continue with our jobs as the older people around us continue with their jobs. They grab gun after gun after gun from the many racks. They grab bulletproof armour and shove it on. They grab crates full of ammunition and tie them to their backs. They prepare for the war that will be started within moments. And they succeed. They succeed. They keep on succeeding until there are almost two thousand armed people, scattered within the armoury. I can see them through the windows. There are also many people scattered around the armoury as well, on the streets and in huts.

They move silently. They work silently. They load their guns silently and make sure that Uni's voice can be heard all around, so that no guards come near us in this moment of truth. And no guards do come near us. They hear Uni's childish voice, as faint and distant as it is, and it strikes fear into their hearts. They think that the armoury guards are already seeing to this part of the city, they don't need to go there as well. And they leave us all alone.

We are armed. About two thousand of us are armed. That's about three percent of the population. But at the same time, we have as many guns as the guards have. We have as many guns as them, we have as many bulletproof vests, and we have way more people than they have. Everything is working towards our advantage. The rest of the people have spears. Spears carefully crafted of scrap metal that the people stole out of the scrap yard and cut with the resistance's stolen factory equipment and expensive candles. We have been practicing with them in secret.

The war has begun. The war that I never thought I would live to see in my lifetime. The war that I have dreamed of all my lifetime. The war that I will fight in.

The older kids take the younger ones to the safety of the huts. The safety of the special dug-out huts that we prepared to help the especially young shelter and stay safe during the war. And we go get ready.

———

The street is covered in bodies. The bodies of the people. The bodies of the guards. There are far more bodies of guards than there are bodies of people who fought. So many people who fought. Some of them are decked in armour, that they stole from the armoury, that fits them in a ramshackle kind of way. Some are decked in the common rags that my people wear, worn and thin and like the earth. They all are covered in blood, are dark with it. Some of the blood is new, fresh, red. I imagine that it would be warm to the touch. Some of the blood is old and darkened.

It's a horrific sight, one that makes me deeply sick to my stomach. I've known death. I've known death. I've seen so many loved ones pass away. But death of this caliber, thousands of people in the span of a few hours, bodies paving the streets, it's beyond anything I've ever known before. And it's gory. It's so, so gory.

Yet I'm not mourning the murdered martyrs the way I've mourned other people who left this world. Everyone who died here, everyone who died like this, they died on their feet. They died fighting for a better world. They didn't die because of neglect, because of poverty. They didn't die due to horrific working conditions or prejudice against their class. They died because they stood up. They stood up for what they believed in, they stood up for future generations, they stood up for a better world. And at the end of the day, that is so, so, so incredibly much better than dying quietly, than accepting your fate as a lesser person and letting death take you on the floor or at work.

Everyone who is dying here will be able to walk into the afterlife with their heads held high. They will be heralded as heroes, and they will be able to tell all their ancestors that they did not go down passively. They went down fighting, with their teeth bared, looking their oppressors dead in the eyes. And oh how deeply, deeply glorious that will be. And how deeply cathartic too, how satisfying to be able to come to the end of your life's story and to have it end with such bloody, bloody triumph.

Not that they deserve to die. Not that any of them deserve to die. Besides the guards of course. Just because they got murdered for standing up for what they believe in doesn't change the fact that they got murdered. It doesn't change the fact that each loss is a horrific loss. Each person on the ground had friends, had family, had neighbours. They had children in their lives. Children who will miss them to no end.

But the future generations will never again have to know the loss of their loved ones. And they will never again have to live lives worse than death, where their only hope is death. That is why all these people are fighting, all these people are giving up everything. And that is why I'm fighting too.

I've been lucky so far. My dark skin hides in the night, a night that is only illuminated by the glaring yet dispersed street lights. I'm young, so people are protecting me. And I've been able to get my hands on a gun, since I was so close to the epicentre of the robbery. But still, my heart thuds in my chest and fear flows in the rush of my veins, coating each molecule of my blood. I am more awake than I have ever been in my life. I am more alert than I have ever been in my life. And I am terrified.

There are gunshots all around me. From friends, from enemies, from unknown sources. The guns all sound the same but the shouts of the people do not. There are those shouting in rage, the sort of rage that only comes after living your whole life under the heels of those who think of you as less than an insect, who don't think of you as a living thing at all. There are other people also shouting in rage. The rage that comes with living your whole life thinking other people are beneath you. There are people screaming in pain, wailing in grief, and even laughing in victory. It's a cacophony of chaos and I hate it and I love it. But more than anything, it makes me feel alive.

I get shot in the chest. But my bulletproof vest protects me. It's a close call nonetheless. I've been shot many times before. Each time has sent a jolt of fear racing through me. I shoot back in the direction of the black-clad soldier whose gun the shot came from. I can tell that he's a guard from the superiority glinting sharply in his eyes. The bulletproof glass on his helmet has long since been shattered. But he's still heavily armed. But my bullet hits him right in the jaw, horrifically disfiguring his face. He gives off a garbled scream. I shoot him again, in the head to make sure that he's really, properly dead. And then I cheer loudly. This is my second kill tonight.

But it's a broken sort of cheer. As much a scream of anguish as it is a cheer of joy. This is my second kill tonight. I'm only thirteen.

I guess I shouldn't have done that though. A hail of bullets comes flying at me from the right. I run to go duck behind a hut. And, thank the gods, my armour got everything. I thank the Mother and Her Child for just a moment before I scan my surroundings. I cannot ever let my guard down, even a bit. Because they're out to kill me. They're out to kill all of us. And I cannot let them. There is chaos all around me. Bodies falling. People screaming. I look for who to shoot next. I'm half cold blooded killer, half screaming child. But I do not know which half is which.

I see a guard shoot at an unarmed man. I guess he lost all his spears. The man falls to the ground, a fountain of blood gushing out from his thigh. I almost throw up. I do not even know this man. I do not know him, but I have to avenge him. I shoot at the guard. It doesn't pierce through his armour, but it does get his attention. Which is not good for me. I duck back behind the wall, catching my breath. If I go after him again I might die. Is that worth it? Of course it is. I cannot be a coward. Not now. Not after we have collectively done so much. I whisper a short prayer before leaning back out to shower him in a hail of billets.

Unfortunately this leads me to be showered in my own hail of bullets, which he fired as soon as he saw me. My armour holds strong, but it doesn't protect me this time as a sharp, burning, tearing bullet digs into the bottom of my rib cage, between two of my right ribs. I scream. I burns. It burns. It burns so much. White hot, searing pain that flows from my wound out to my whole body. I look at the man who shot me. He looks smug. None of my bullets pierced through his armour.

But right before I pass out, I see a woman impaling the guard with her spear, from behind. His face flashes with surprise, then horror. I guess I distracted him enough for her to be able to sneak up on him. I smile, and that's the last thing I ever do. And the last emotion I feel in this life is a sweet, hot, darkened sort of vengeance. A vengeance borne of pain. A vengeance bearing victory. It was worth it, it was worth it, it was all so very worth it. We will be free. We will all be equal.

———

I awaken to a realm made up completely of something intangible, something untouchable, something deeply intimate, something intimately beautiful. I wake up and this is the first time in my life where I have felt at peace, felt free from the horrors plaguing me. I am holding baby Universe close in my arms. They are infinitely beautiful, as they always are. In their eyes I see each person, each creature, each plant and rock and piece of soil. I see the sky and the water and the ground and the fire. And I see love. Universe is happy in my arms. Happier than I have ever seen them. They smile, and there is no brokenness behind that smile. They are happy. Everything is right. And I am about to enter a new beginning, along with the world.

My heart thuds in my chest. I find it hard to breathe, as if there is a stone lodged in my throat and I cannot force air past it. I feel as if my entire body has turned to stone. Hunger gnaws in my stomach, burns up through my chest, flows down my arms and legs, grates over my throat. I cannot breathe. I feel as if the entire world is on my shoulders. I feel as if I am nothing. I feel as if I am everything.

I kneel alongside the rows and rows of worshippers, the whole town gathered in the rolling square. The young and the old and the sick and the healthy alike. All together. All kneeling. All together for now. For now. For now. And us being together gives me a sense of strength. It gives me the ability to face this horror that we are all faced with.

On everyone's face is etched the same mask of reverence and worship. Everyone's mask is perfect, is flawless, is impenetrable. But I can see beyond their masks. Because I really look at their eyes. I really look into their eyes and deep, deep inside those dark pools is terror. Each and every time, it's terror. And a cascade of other emotions, too many and too complicated to be named.

Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to leave the group. Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to shoulder the burdens of the whole town in their fragile, thin arms. They will carry the stress of having to carry us all, they will bear the responsibility of all of our fortunes and fates. All of our fortunes and fates. That is too much for anyone to handle. But handle it, we must. And we must handle it with dignity and grace, no matter how fake the dignity and the grace is.

Time seems to still all around me as I kneel in my place, in my carefully-positioned place in the straight row that is part of the dozens upon dozens of rows all stretching out before us. I feel as if I have been kneeling here forever. I feel as if I will be kneeling here forever. But still, I'd rather kneel here forever than be chosen.

———

"We have to make do with what we have," Marsita is telling us through her all-consuming tiredness. I can see her exhaustion in her voice, in her eyes, in her face, in her posture, in her body language, in everything. She is trying to hold on, to her life, to her fight, to her will. She's trying for all of us. But last week her husband died. It's hard to be strong.

I am sitting in the clay hut of Marsita, a few huts over from my own hut. There is a ragged collection of people from the community here. We're all leaning against the walls, barely able to stay sitting up, letting all of our energy go. Scattered across the laps of the older ones, there are young children. Shajira, Baira, Namaro, and Kyare.

They are almost limp as they lean against their adults. I have little baby Alara on my lap. She is sweet and soft and thin and limp. But she's breathing. She is still breathing. I feel her breath against me, and for this I am beyond grateful,

Normally, someone would be cooking on the clay stove at the end of the little room. But right now there is nothing to cook.

"We should have more," Shajira says, looking out into the sky with her dark eyes. She holds an anger within her. I can tell that she holds an anger within her. That is not good.

"Now, don't blame anyone," Ereeth says in an exhausted, calm sort of way, the candlelight reflecting on his silvery gray hair. "We don't need to cause unneeded rifts."

"I'm not blaming anyone," Shajira replies, blowing a tuft of black curls away from her eyes. "I'm just saying, it's not fair."

Beside us, Jasey is sleeping. I watch his breathing, slow and shallow, rising and falling almost imperceptibly. There is something foreboding about the way the candlelight of the dark room settled over his peat-dark skin.

"Are you blaming the great and powerful Lady?" Marsita's voice carries alarm within it. And I totally understand why. No-one can blame the Lady about anything. Lest she hear and curse us. But still, she cursed us already, with our harvests failing and our year spent hungry. She cursed us already and I do not know how she could curse us any more.

"I'm not," Shajira replies, I'm not blaming her. I'm just blaming the situation."

"Do not even say what can be thought of as blame. For if she hears us, I know not what she'll do." There is protective alarm in my exhausted voice. I have to make sure that she stays safe. That she keeps all of us safe. Or, as safe as possible in a time like this.

"And, remember," Alaro adds in, "we cannot blame Darjo either. He's young. He's very young. And he had a great burden placed upon him those many months ago. He did the best that he could. He did the best that he could to please the Lady. And we should not place blame upon his young shoulders." Alaro's clay-red skin shines bright in the candlelight, almost like blood. and there is something slightly haunting to him.

"I'm not blaming him. I'm just blaming the situation." She presses on, sweetly, the young child, more oblivious than she should be of the danger that's all around her. Of the danger that's absolutely everywhere.

"Be careful," I warn her. "You should not be blaming anything. You should not be making it harder for us."

I keep my eyes on Jasey. He is still breathing in the smoke-tinted air. He is still lying on the hard clay floor of the hut. He's still sleeping, oblivious to the hunger and the hurting and the need and the death of the waking world. I almost wish that he stays asleep forever. Sleep is the only place where it doesn't hurt. It's the only place where nothing hurts. But no, no I do not wish that at all. We need him. Everyone needs him. We cannot do without him. I don't know why, but we cannot do without him. We need him to stay alive.

"Why can't we talk about how sad we are? Kyare asks.

"Because," I answer, "it's not safe."

"Because of the Lady?" They ask.

"Yes, sweetheart, because of the Lady," I respond. Hunger gnaws at my gut and twists apart my insides. I feel as if I have been scraped hollow, scraped raw, left bleeding. But I feel like this all the time. This past few months I have been feeling like this all the time.

"Why does the Lady listen to us?" They ask with their tired, youthful voice.

"The Lady does not listen to us all of the time," Alaro explains. "But you never know when she might be listening. You never know when she might be looking in. If we want to have a good harvest next year, if we want to eat next year, we must make sure that we do not displease her. And that means that we must be grateful for everything that she gives us." Alaro's words come out slowly, with many breaks in between. I understand why. In this stretch of time, they really sink in, true and necessary and terrible.

"But how do we know when she's looking?" Kyare asks. There is something curious in their voice. Something dreading. And something just, lightly hopeful.

"We don't know," Ereeth responds. "We don't know if she's looking in on us. We don't even know if she can look in on us. But her power is too great to rule it out as a possibility. She controls the harvest. Who knows what else she controls?"

"Anyways," Marsita cuts in, "this conversation is getting far too negative, my young ones. Why don't we move on to another more positive line of talking?

"Like what?" Kyare asks. There is something hopeless in their tone.

"I don't know," Ereeth replies, "maybe we could talk about next year when the harvest will be better. What are we going to do then?"

"I'll make rice cakes," Namaro tells us. Sweet, little Namaro. Sweet little all of them. Each and every single one. "I love rice cakes."

"I love rice cakes too," Marsita tells him. "Rice cakes are so delicious. And they're so soft and fluffy and lovely. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice cakes. Enough to make up for all the hunger this year."

"I hope so too," Namaro agrees. "I hope we get lots and lots of food. I love food. I miss food." Sweet kid. I relate to him, I relate to him so much. I'm sure we all miss food. I'm sure we all miss it so much. Not that we don't have any food. No, the Lady is too merciful for that. But we don't have enough. We don't have nearly enough.

"I miss food too," I tell him. "I miss it so much. But I'm holding on to hope. You have to hold on to hope too. You all have to hold on to hope. Hope is all that we have after all. Hope is all that keeps us going." The baby is my arms is still breathing. Still breathing. I am so glad that she is getting to rest. Sweet baby.

"Do you think we'll have a good harvest next year? I hope we do." Namaro's young, dark voice has a hint of lightness in it.

"I think we will," Alaro replies. "Just hold on hope."

"Yes," Ereeth echoes, "hold on hope."

"We have more good years than bad years," Marsita tells everyone.

"But we still have bad years, though," Baira tells us. And there is something imploring in her adorable little voice that does not pronounce everything properly. There is something amazing as well.

"We do, Baira, we do," I tell her. "But we can't dwell on the bad years. We have to dwell on the good years."

"We have to dwell on whatever we have," Alaro adds in.

"And we have to be grateful," I finish. "We have to be grateful to the Lady for all that she blesses us with. Do you think you can be grateful?"

"I think I can," Baira replies, voice thoughtful. "I think I'll try to be. But it's hard sometimes."

"Of course it's hard sometimes," Marsita acknowledges. "Of course it's hard sometimes. But it's okay. You're okay. You'll get through it. We all will. And you'll find your ways to be grateful and to count your blessings despite it all. You'll see that there's a lot that we have, a lot that the Lady gives us."

"Like what? What does she give us?" Baira asks. I can tell that she wants to listen to us. I can tell that she wants to be grateful. But she doesn't know how. And that's understandable, that's so understandable. A lot of us don't know how sometimes.

"She gives us good harvests," Ereeth replies. "And she gives us all the things we need in order to have good harvests. She teaches us to be humble and grateful and thank her for all she gives us. You have to be grateful for that."

"I'll try my best to," Baira replies. There is something determined and resolute in her little voice. In her big, dark eyes. And I'm proud of her for trying her best. I'm really proud.

"Good job," I tell her. "That's all you need to do. You just need to try your best. That's all we all do. We all try our best and we do what we can. And guess what? It's enough to keep the Lady happy, most of the times." My words come out slowly. I try not to put an emphasis on most of the times, but it happens anyways. Most of the times is the key phrase here. Our best is not enough to keep the Lady happy all of the times. We have too many years when it's not enough. Far too many.

We keep talking, trying our best to ignore the hunger and the aching that's inside of us. The conversation is a good distraction. It's a good distraction from the pain. But it doesn't do enough, it doesn't go far enough, not nearly far enough to help us all. But still. Still I am very glad and grateful for the people around me. I am grateful for the words that flow on all around me and the words that flow into my ears and through my mind. I'm grateful for the words that flow from me. I'm grateful for the fact that the others listen to them, that they hear me, that we all hear each other.

I'm grateful for the baby in my arms and I am so, so worried about her. She was born in the midst of a bad year, in the midst of famine and hunger and need. And she never got enough nourishment in her life. She never got enough. I hope so strongly, hope so hard, that she doesn't die. I hope with all my being that she lives to see better years, that she lives to see years that help her grow and thrive and bloom and flourish into the radiant individual that she is meant to be, that she already is.

We keep talking, we all keep talking, until one by one we start to fall asleep. There is nothing else to do. It's too dry to raise crops and there's no food to preserve and prepare and cook. All we have to do is talk. Which in its own way is a strange sort of blessing.

I look towards Jasey, as the night is pouring darkness in through the cracks of the shutters. And he's not breathing. He's not breathing. I move immediately to tell the others.

"Jasey's not breathing." My voice comes out small and stilted. It comes out forced and squeaky.

"What?" Marsita's voice is dreading and determined and purposeful. It's calm in a untraceable sort of, in a strong sort of way.

"He's not breathing," I reply. I still find it hard to force the words out of my mouth.

Marsita goes to kneel over Jasey. She puts one dark hand on his dark neck. And she feels for a pulse.

"There's nothing there," she says all at once.

———

We are stone-silent here, kneeling, all of us terrified, all of us hiding it. We have been kneeling here for what feels like hours, feels like days, feels like years, though it probably only has been a few dozen minutes. The time flows in a trickle, and the breath flows heavy and ragged down my chest, like I am breathing in a collection of hard, sharp-edged stones instead of air.

We are waiting for the moment. For the moment in which she will come. The moment in which the Lady will come. The moment when everything will start, and we will have to start praying with everything we have for the unlucky person who gets chosen. Praying to soothe them. Praying to give them strength. Praying to give them victory. So that they might please the Lady. So that they might save our town and our harvest for one more year.

I kneel here until my knees hurt. And I make sure to not show any of the hurt on my face.

All at once there is a bright flash of light all across the whole sky. It's too bright. Too painful. It hurts to see. But I keep my eyes open. I struggle and I fight to keep my eyes open anyways, through all the hurt, because she needs to see us looking at her. She needs to see our eyes upon her. Immediately, as quickly as the world got bright, it gets pitch-dark. And there's something dreadful in this darkness, darkness in the middle of the day. There is something deeply unnatural to it. Still I keep my face a mask of reverence. I don't let any of my fear and my trepidation show through.

Standing in front of us, on the large, ornately-carved stone stage in the middle of the town, is the Lady.

She wears a shimmering dress of bright, sparkling red. It's sleek and falls beautifully, falls perfectly on her. Clasped around her waist is an intricately-carved, flowing and swirling belt of gold. Hung from her neck is a fine golden chain adorned with a gold-framed pendant of a bright ruby. She has a youthful look to her and black hair as straight as a beam. She is beautiful. Far too beautiful. Far too beautiful for it to possibly be natural. There is something deeply uncanny about the way that she looks. There is something deeply uncanny about all of her.

"Your reverence," old woman Marila, one of the town elders, speaks out in a voice that sounds so unafraid, in a voice that is hiding so much fear. "Welcome to our humble town. We thank you deeply and profusely from the bottom of our hearts for gracing us all with your magnificent presence. May we be able to show our deep and humble gratitude towards you for all that you have done for us and for all that you are. Your reverence."

"Indeed." The Lady's voice is clear and peaceful and supercilious, as it always is. There is so much highness and dignity in the way that she speaks. Her words flow out so smoothly, so loudly, as they always do. And there's something deeply unnatural about it. There's something deeply unnatural about it all. Like everything else about her, her voice is just too flawless, too beautiful, too perfect. But I try to not let my fear show in any way as I stay there, kneeling, listening to her words.

"Our bright and radiant Lady," Marila begins, "for what purpose have you graced our village with your presence?"

"I come to have a communion with one chosen member of your town. I come to test how your town is keeping to its virtue and its honour."

"Thank you, my Lady, for blessing us with such a rare and treasured opportunity. It is my greatest hope that we do not let you down."

"My expectations for your town and its people are quite elevated. There is a lot for you all to live up to."

"But of course, my Lady. Your expectations are high and glorious and it is my deepest, sincerest hope that we are all able to live up to your lofty desires."

"Allow me to look through the crowd, now. I must select a fine and upstanding citizen of the town with whom to carry out my communion."

"But of course, my Lady. Take all the time that you need."

She scans over the crowd with here serene, impartial, menacing eyes. There is something too smooth about the way she looks over all of us. There is something too probing.

I wonder, briefly, if I will be the one who gets chosen. I hope to the universe that I am not. I cannot handle that type of pressure. No-one can. But I pacify my racing heart with the knowledge that there are thousands of us here. There are thousands of us here in the town. The likelihood of me being picked is very slim.

She looks through the crowd for what seems like an eternity. I wonder what is going on in her head. I don't think I'll ever be able to know what she thinks. I don't think I'll ever be able to even imagine it. She is so, so very different from all of us, from her unnatural beauty to her lack of fear to the calm, cool way in which she regards everything. There is an untouchability to her, as if all the cares that us humans have merely pass by her as interesting ideas. She looks through the crowd.

She eventually settles on a person. And that person is me. Her gaze holds me longer than it has held anyone else up to this point. My heart stops in my chest. I feel as though I am about to throw up. This can't be. This can't be. This can't be. But it is. It is no matter how much I want it to not be. It is no matter what I want.

"Calen Agua," she calls out, eyes dead set on me.

I bow my head low.

"Yes, my Lady?" I reply, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. Keeping my voice as meek and humble and submissive as I possibly can.

"I choose you to be my companion for the harvest ritual that we are about to undertake."

"Yes, my Lady," I reply. "I am deeply, overwhelmingly honoured and humbled that you have chosen to select me out of all the masses of people. It is a deep honour." My words, of course, are a lie. But I lie as convincingly as I can, extracting all my effort into making sure that she does not sense even the idea of a lie behind my words.

"You may come join me now," her voice rings out clear and terrible.

"Yes, my Lady. Of course."

I rise. And my legs want to shake, my knees want to buckle, my breath wants to come out ragged and jagged and uneven. But I force everything to keep calm and collected and contained, to be smooth and fluid as I make up the distance between myself and the stage.

I am more deeply, more entirely, more horrifically terrified than I ever have been at any point in my entire life. The profound, all-consuming dread cracks and crumbles everything inside of me, at the same time as turning my insides into stone. I feel like I am getting hit by lightning over and over and over again. I feel like I am crumbling to ashes. I feel like I want to throw up. I want so deeply, so badly, to throw up. But I can't.

I force myself to the stage on my numb, rubbery legs. And I climb the stone steps, cold and harsh and piercing under my bare feet. And everything feels frozen, screaming cold and cloying, suffocating hot both at the same time. Everything feels completely unreal, as if I am moving through a nightmare. Yet everything feels overwhelmingly, undeniably real, more real than anything has ever felt before.

Finally, after what seems like forever, my long and weighted walk is at its end. The Lady towers in front of me. And I force myself to look at her. I force myself to look at her and gulp down all the multitude of feelings that I am feeling. I force myself to hide.

I twist my lips into as close to a perfectly realistic smile as I can possibly make. And I kneel down in front of her.

Everything relies on me now. The town's fate relies on me. The harvest relies on me. The lives, health, and survival of innumerable people rely on me. And I can't take this. I can't take the pressure. But I have to. It's not my choice. It's my duty. I only hope that I am strong enough. That I can save them all. I have to save them all.

———

Darjo and I are washing clothes by the river. It's a Saturday, a day that is mostly not for work, a day that is mostly for rest. But both of us have washing to do and we thought that we might as well do it. We might as well get it out of the way. And so we're here, just the two of us, together on the sloping, silt-covered banks of the river.

It's beautiful here. The water stretches out bright and calming and perfect as far as the eye can see in each direction. It reflects the sunlight in bright rippled waves. It soothes my soul and fills me with a sense of purpose. I love the river. It seems to talk to me every time I am near it, every time I come to it for help. The river feels like an older brother or sister or sibling. And I am so grateful to have some time now, here, beside the river.

The universe knows that I need to soothe my soul. I need to find some solace and some peace and some way to ignore the hunger within me, some way to ignore the fear and the grief and the pain all around me. Some way to make this nightmare of a year just a little more palatable. Because we all know that I will have to gulp down this horror of a year no matter what.

Not that I blame Darjo, not that I blame him at all.

"But I blame myself," he says to me, as we are washing our clothes. "I'm the one who disappointed her. I'm the one who disappointed you all."

"You tried your best, my soul's brother. You tried your best and you did what you could."

"It doesn't matter whether I tried my best or not because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to save you all." There is something profoundly haunted in his voice. And something profoundly haunting.

"We all know that it's very difficult to please the Lady. Nobody is blaming you. None of us are blaming you. Not at all."

"You should be blaming me." The guilt in his tone is almost tangible. I can almost reach out and touch it with my fingers. I feel so bad for him. So bad. He must be feeling so bad himself, must be feeling so much worse than the rest of us are feeling.

"We shouldn't be blaming you."

"Yes, you should. I'm the one who disappointed the Lady. I'm the one who displeased her. And because of this, the whole town has to suffer. The whole harvest has to die."

"We can get by. We are getting by. We can pick the berries and dig up the roots in the woods."

"But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. There are too many people and not enough woods to feed them all."

"We can get by."

"What about all the people dying? Can they get by? They're not getting by. What about all the families and neighbours and friends who are grieving. Can they get by?"

"I know. I understand. It's hard. But it's not your fault."

"How is it not my fault? The Lady chose me. She chose me to commune with her. And that meant that it was my responsibility to take care of you all and to please her so that she blesses the harvest."

"That's a lot of responsibility to take on. But you took it so well. You took it well and you did everything that you could. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you."

The water flows cool and clear against my hands, refreshing and rushing and altogether full of life. The sun shines warmly against my skin, warming me up from the inside. There is the lightest hint of a breeze and it flows in my hair. Today is beautiful. It's so beautiful. But inside my heart it is dark and wet and twisting. My emotions are not beautiful. Still, I am grateful for the beauty of this blessed day, and I'm grateful for all the ways that simple nature is trying to cheer us up.

"I'm going to kill myself," Darjo declares out softly to the river and to the sunlight and to me. My heart thuds in sympathy and sorrow.

"Please don't."

"I will. It's what I deserve. I've killed so many people. The blood of so many people is on my hands."

"Their blood is not on your hands. But if you kill yourself, your blood will be."

"My blood deserves to be. I've damned you all. I've hurt you all."

"Please don't."

"There's nothing that you can say to stop me from doing it."

Tears trek their way down my cheeks. And I don't stop myself from crying. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to cry. And I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to express my emotions. But I'm not grateful for the fact that I can't help. I cannot help dear, sweet Darjo and I cannot stop the guilt that he feels inside of himself. I can only watch him go, and try to give him whatever comfort I can until he does.

I feel so very helpless. So very, incredibly, unbearably helpless.

But I understand what he's feeling. I really do. I think, perhaps, if I was in a similar situation as him I would feel the same way.

We continue washing our clothes, the river's water cool against our hands. I think I can understand what he must be feeling. I can understand why he blames himself. I think he's carrying more perturbation this year than anyone else is. He's carrying more weight. He has been carrying this weight since the first moment that he got called to represent our town in front of the Lady. And we're all carrying weight in this awful, painful year. We're all carrying so much weight. And there's nothing we can do to lessen it. Nothing except for helping each other.

———

I am kneeling in front of the Lady. And, for the first time in my life, I am glad that my stomach is empty. Because if it wasn't, I don't know if I could keep myself from throwing up. Though I make sure to not let her know that. I have to act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm amazingly honoured to be in her magnificent and awe-striking presence. I have to make her believe it.

And she does believe it. I truly believe that she believes me as she looks down her nose and unfolds her lips out into a haughty, satisfied smile. She looks as carefree and supercilious as she always does. She looks as calm and as serious. There is nothing in her face that warns of disapproval. And I internally sigh with relief, just a tiny bit. It seems that, so far, I am pleasing her. It seems that, so far, I am doing good. Let's just hope I can keep it up.

She waves her clean, dainty, ivory hand, a motion through the air that is much too smooth to be natural. And the world around me goes white. I cannot see my people out of the corner of my eye anymore. I am cut off, alone. No-one can help me now.

The fear in my heart spikes sharp, stabbing through me. But I make sure that I keep kneeling there, I keep kneeling there, through all the terror I keep kneeling there and not showing any signs of my inner longings. But I want my people. I want them to at least be beside me.

The whiteness all around me glows brighter and brighter, until it is absolutely blinding to look at. I keep my eyes open, though the light is searing my eyes. And I keep my head slightly bowed though my head is throbbing in sharp pain. The light seems to be cutting through my soul, through the very fabric of myself. Yet still, I fight with everything that I have in order to not react.

Finally, the light dies down, and I find myself in the strangest place I have ever been in.

It's a large room, larger than I knew rooms could ever be, positively palatial. The floors are patterned in many colourful tiles, little flecks of darker colour dispersed through their light hues. The tiles are arranged in intricate patterns. The walls are covered in large paintings and fine tapestries everywhere I turn, except for the windows which are crystal clear and look out into an immaculately blooming garden.

There are fine statues of heroic figures and regal animals, positioned stylishly around the room. And all the walls are lined with large tables of dark, rich, intricately-carved wood. There is a silver fountain in the middle of the room and the ceiling is a mirror. Beside the fountain is a small, sleek crystal table with chairs made of blue gems. In the middle is a China tea set.

I take it all in but I force myself not to react, even to all the strangeness. This room does not do anything to calm my nerves. In fact, it makes me even more anxious that before. Because not only am I alone. Not only am I carrying the burden of my entire town. But also, I am in a place I don't recognize at all, as beautiful as it is. I am in a place that I can tell is not for me.

"You may rise." The Lady's voice holds no affection within it, but no anger either. Hearing her makes my heart leap to my throat. But I force myself to get up as fluidly and as gracefully as I can.

"Thank you, my Lady."

"First of all, what is your name, gender, and age?"

"My name is Calen and I am a man. I'm eighteen." I'm really a demiboy but I don't think she'd understand that. I don't want to risk it. Though lying is a risk too. But it's a risk I'll have to take often.

"Take a seat. Let us drink some tea." She walks to the small table beside the fountain, her red dress swaying slightly as she moves. Everything seems completely unreal to me. Completely unreal and unbearably, unrealistically real both at the same time. I follow her to the table.

"Thank you, my Lady. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to drink tea with you." I keep my voice even.

"You may pour the tea now," she replies.

"Yes, of course, my Lady." The China has patterns of all sorts of birds on it, and is ringed with geometrical patterns. I fill both our glasses with the light brown liquid.

"And I will take two sugars," she tells me. I scoop her the sugars. I don't take any myself.

"You may pass the sandwiches now," she commands, and I put one dainty sandwich on each of our plates.

We eat in silence for a little bit, me keeping my head slightly bowed throughout the whole thing. It's so hard for me to force food down my throat. But I do so anyways. The food is surprisingly delicious, and that makes it easier to eat, at least. I have to be thankful for the little blessings.

"So, are you enjoying the tea?" she asks me in a serene voice.

"Yes, my lady. It's the most delicious tea I have ever had." This is not a lie. "Thank you so much for your gracious generosity in sharing your meal with me." This part is a lie.

"And what of the sandwiches? Are you enjoying those?"

"Yes, my Lady. They are absolutely delicious. Thank you once again for your generosity in sharing them with me."

"And now, I suppose, we will move onto the questions of more value. How is the town doing?"

"We are doing alright, my Lady," I lie. "Things have been pretty hard due to the harvest last year but we are getting by pretty well. Thank you for asking me of the town, and thank you for your everlasting concern towards us." I'm not telling the truth. Of course I'm not telling the truth. If I told the truth I would doom everyone. But I can only hope that she doesn't see through my lie. I can only hope that she doesn't have information to the contrary.

"And the townspeople, what do they think of me?"

"They think very highly of you, my Lady. You are, after all, the one who blesses us with so many blessings. You are the one who gives to us all that we have and all that we need to live. You have blessed us with so many good harvests and bounty flows from within your hands. And for that we are grateful, deeply grateful. And we are humbled. Deeply humbled."

"And do they not believe that I am to blame for the years when the harvest is cursed?" There is a bit of an accusing edge to her voice. It makes my world go still for a moment. This is not good. This is really, really not good. But I hope I can save it.

"Not at all," I answer swiftly. "We do not blame you for a cursed harvest. For we know it is your choice. It is your choice whether to curse the harvest or whether to bless it. And it is your decision to make, not ours. You have a right and an entitlement to make the decision that you choose to make, and we are in understanding of that." I think up the answer to the question as lightning-fast as I can, and I hope that it's coherent.

"And what of the children? What do they think of me?"

"They are awestruck by your power and by your amazing abilities. They are grateful for your blessings. We are teaching them to be grateful for your blessings." The children in actuality do not like her at all, they're dead afraid. We try to stop them from expressing it, but we can't stop them every time. My mouth feels a little numb as I tell her the lie. I am dead afraid of being found out. But I do what I have to do and say what I have to say to keep my people safe.

"And how about you?" she asks, a touch of concern in her voice.

"What about me, my Lady?"

"Are you happy, in the moment?"

"Of course I am, my Lady." I force the words out of my dry, grating throat as calmly as I can. "It's beyond an honour to be in your presence and to be able to dine with you. It's beyond an honour and I am beyond thrilled." I feel like my lung is full of rocks. Like I'm forcing the air through their hard, rough edges. "Are you happy?"

"I am always happy," she replies smoothly. Unsettlingly smoothly. "And the town, is the town happy?"

"Yes, we are. We count our blessings and are blessed by all that you give us."

"What of the years when the harvest is cursed? Is the town still happy?"

"Why of course we are happy. Even if food is scarce, we have blessings. And we are used to years with meagre harvests. We have grown able to handle them. We know how to deal with years with limited food and how to still be happy despite it all."

"What of the people who die?"

"The deaths, too, we have grown used to. We have learned how to work through our emotions and how to rationalize death so that we do not feel grief at losing someone. We must be grateful no matter what fate gives us." Talking about the dead people is even, somehow, much harder than talking about everything else. The grief pangs in my heart and I have nowhere to put it. I have to struggle and fight with strength I never knew I possessed in order to keep emotion out of my voice. But I manage to get through it. Somehow, miraculously, I manage to get through it. Maybe because I have to. I absolutely have to.

"And the children," the Lady continues on, "are they happy?"

"Why of course they are," I answer as convincingly as I can, "you have blessed them with so much out of the kindness of your heart."

"The kindness of my heart, you say."

"Of course, my Lady. Your heart is so kind. You provide us with everything we have." I do not tell her that she does not give us the one thing that really matters, which is each other.

The Lady smiles slightly. My heart stills, holds its breath. Is this a good sign? Am I pleasing her? I hope so. I allow myself to release a breath that I didn't know I was holding.

"And what of my birthday?" Her voice is an overly-saccharine trill. "Do you celebrate my birthday?"

"Oh we do, my Lady. Of course we do. With much merriment and celebration, and with a big feast, just as we should. It is, after all, a deeply auspicious day."

"A feast? How do you pull off a feast on a year when the harvest has been cursed?" Her question sounds genuine, but still, I'm in treacherous waters. Still, I anticipated this. I practiced for this. I have an answer.

"We fastidiously save every morsel of food that we have for the feast, of course. Because it's such a joyous day. Of course we have to celebrate it in a joyous way."

"And what of the boy I had in here with me last year? How is he doing?" Darjo. She's talking about Darjo. Oh no.

"He died, I'm afraid." I fight to keep the grief out of my voice, out of my expression. I fight to keep my voice even, keep my breathing even.

"Oh, how did he die?" Her words are cool and mildly curious. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a tragedy. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a death.

"Well, you see, he died in an accident. He was scaling a tall tree with a knife and he got distracted." Got distracted. Sure, he got distracted. I won't say anything about how he willingly jumped off.

"And was he loyal, this Darjo?" Loyal? She chooses to ask if he's loyal? She speaks no words on the tragedy of his death? I hide my exasperation.

"Yes, my Lady. He was loyal to you until his last breath." Hopefully this is the answer she is looking for. It's a false answer but hopefully it's the answer she's been looking for.

"And how do you know that he was loyal till the end?"

I think of an answer lightning fast and I tell her what she wants to hear.

"Because, my Lady, he always talked about how glorious it was and what an honour it was to commune with you, my Lady."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. He was deeply grateful to the opportunity you gifted him with. But do not worry, he did not say anything that would give any details away about his interactions with you."

"I'm happy he didn't give any details away." There is something smirking hidden behind her voice. My whole body goes cold with dread.

"He would never, my Lady."

"Oh, I know he would never." There is something sly and secretive to the way she says that. I am keenly aware of all the danger all around me.

"So anyways," the Lady continues, "are your people learning the wisdom that I am imparting to you?"

"We are trying, my Lady. We are definitely trying very hard. It is difficult, though. All your lessons and all your wisdom are so high and refined and intricate and complicated. They are hard for us simple-minded, uneducated people to understand."

"That is to be expected, of course."

"But know, my Lady, that we are doing what we can to the best of our abilities."

"You must keep trying. The wisdom of my glorious race can help you build better lives and families."

"But of course, my Lady. Of course it can."

"Speaking of families, are you properly worshipful of my family?"

"But of course, my Lady." This isn't a total lie. We are worshipful of her family. But we are only worshipful because we have to be. Not for any other reason. "We may not know your family," I continue, "but we are of course worshipful to them. Anyone who is related to your grace and your glory must be equally graceful and glorious. Any background that you came from must be an amazing background. Your race has so much power and awesomeness. We would be remiss to not worship them."

"My family is quite marvellous," she agrees.

"But of course they are. Anyone related to you must be marvellous." This interrogation seems to be going well. But I need to stay alert. I need to stay alert. And I need to do everything exactly right. I need to do everything exactly right until I am allowed to go home again.

"And do you all work hard in order to please me?" I know what this question is about. It's about the vestments. Every Wednesday there are bags full of the most fine and rich clothes that magically appear on our streets. They are the garments of the Lady herself. We fastidiously wash them in an elaborate ritual that takes days, and return them to the Lady through the special gift fire at the church.

"Yes, of course, my Lady. We meticulously purify all your vestments according to the proper rituals. It is a very high honour for us." I tell the truth. I have to tell the truth. But of course I don't tell her about how difficult and worrying and frustrating the whole process is.

"And are you all grateful for the opportunity to work and please me with your work?"

"We are very thankful. We are always thankful. The opportunity to work for you and your greatness and your glory, to be of service to you and to show our gratitude, to do anything at all for you, it is the best opportunity of all. We are very grateful to be able to be of service to you. We truly love being able to be of service to you. We are grateful to be able to earn even a fraction of the many gifts that you give us."

I think I am navigating these swirling, rocky waters alright. I think I am doing well. This does not, of course, take away more than the barest edge of the all-consuming terror that I feel. Terror that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to exist. I've been feeling this terror since the moment she first called my name and I am still feeling it now. I hope I'm doing well. I hope I'm pleasing her. I have to do well. I have to please her.

"I have an important question, though." There is something dark inside her voice. My throat seizes up and I feel like vomiting.

"Yes, my lady?" I fight hard, so very hard, to keep everything I'm feeling deep down under me. So deep that it will never be shown.

"A relative of mine told me that your people lie to me and that you merely say anything to make me approve of you miserable lot."

Oh my universe. Oh my universe. Oh my universe. I'm damned. How can I salvage this?

"My lady," I start, lying, "I do not think that this is the case. You see, people like us are simple and uneducated and stupid. We are all very simple-minded. Too simple-minded to lie. Too simple-minded to create intricate lies snd stick with them. Not in a remotely convincing way at least."

"That does seem true," she agrees.

"And besides," I choose my words very carefully, "we would never lie to you. We trust you. We trust you and all your great teachings and your benevolence and your grace. We have no reason for lying to you."

"That is what I thought as well. But my relative seemed really rather convinced. Are you saying that my own family member lied to me?" I hate the direction that this is going. I have no idea if I'll be able to salvage this. But still, I have to try. I have to try.

"Lied to you? Why of course not. Of course they didn't lie to you. But perhaps they were fed false information from someone else. Maybe they were manipulated by someone else. Of course, of course they must be a very intelligent person and would not be misinformed easily. Perhaps the person who fed them this wrong information was a master manipulator and manipulated your relative very skillfully and very well."

"That does seem to be a likely case," she concedes. Oh thank you. Thank you. Thank the universe.

"Yes," I agree, "we are far too simple and small-minded to lie convincingly."

"And why should I believe your words over her's?" Damn. What do I do? Everything inside me is a strange, hollow, scraping feeling. Everything inside me is a distant, silent and muffled screaming.

"My Lady." I do what I can to keep my words perfectly even. "My Lady, you can believe whomever you choose to believe, whomever you want to believe. Of course you can believe your relative if you choose to. But I am simply stating what I know. Our people do not have the complex mental capacity that your people have, that you have. Our people do not possess the mental capacities to lie very well." I lie as well as I possibly can. It's the only way to save my people. The only way.

"And have you ever tried to keep anything a secret?" she asks, hopefully, thankfully changing the topic of conversation. Not that this is anything like any other conversation though.

"Secrets? Between the people of this town? No, we love to gossip. We gossip about anything and everything. Any piece of information someone knows or thinks, everyone knows within a matter of weeks." And it's the truth I'm telling. It's really the truth this time. This time being the key words.

"I see. So you are able to speak accurately on the thoughts and feelings of the whole town?"

"I am. We share everything. There is nothing secret between us." I hope she bought my lie about us not lying. I so, so deeply and achingly hope that she bought it.

"And are you teaching the children of the town to serve me?" I'm so beyond grateful that she seems to have put that topic of conversation behind us.

"Yes, my Lady, I respond smoothly. And it's a fake smoothness. But it's necessary.

"We are teaching the children to serve you and to worship you and to work hard purifying your clothes for you." The cleaning ritual has special roles that the children need to take. Special roles that the children hate doing. That any child would hate doing.

"And what do the children think, of serving me?"

"They are deeply humbled and grateful for the opportunity to serve and worship you. They truly treasure it very much. They think you're absolutely amazing and very beautiful and they love working for you." I think my lie is convincing. I had put in a lot of practice towards learning how to lie properly. Everyone in the town has. Even the children. Though thankfully, they're never chosen. Only people who are adults, who have mastered the art of lying, are chosen.

"They think I'm beautiful?"

"Yes. Very much so, my Lady."

She smiles. And her smile is wide and prideful and seems to me to be very genuine. This is good. This is really good.

"And what of you?" she asks. "Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"Do I think you're beautiful? My Lady, you are the most radiant and beautiful being I have ever seen. Your beauty is flawless and beyond compare. I have never witnessed anything at all as beautiful as you." I pour as much awe and humility into my voice as I can.

"And do you think I am gracious?" she asks, small hints of mirth on her voice.

"I think you're beyond gracious, my Lady. I think that the grace that you have is absolutely indescribable and far, far greater and more glorious than anything I have ever seen. I think everything about the way in which you conduct yourself inspires awe and worship." I keep taking occasional small bites out of my sandwich and small sips of my tea. This food is really much more delicious than anything I have ever tasted before.

"And would you follow my orders?"

"But of course. Anything that you want me to do, I would do in a blink."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Then prove it." She puts her hand flat against the belly of the teapot. Steam starts flowing out of the spout and I can tell that the tea is very hot.

"Pour yourself a cup of tea," she instructs, "and drink it all in one sip."

I silently do as she asks, pouring the steaming tea into my teacup. I am afraid, but I know that I must do this. I know that I have no choice, I can only hope that I'm brave enough. Steeling myself against the pain, I move the cup to my lips and tilt it towards me. It burns my lips, my mouth, and my throat, but I force myself to swallow. It sears me all the way down. Then I force myself to take another painful gulp, then another, then another, until the tea is all gone and I can let my burned mouth and throat rest.

"Impressive," the Lady comments impassively.

"Thank you most graciously," I reply politely.

"And what of the townspeople? Would they follow me just as well as you have?"

"They would without thinking, my Lady. I know for certain that they would also." I force myself to speak evenly through my abused throat.

"I am done my meal," the Lady begins elegantly, "and I think we are done our conversation. I will send you back now. Come, kneel in front of me."

I am immensely thankful that it's over and I am aching to see my people again, to run into their arms. I move to a kneeling position beside the Lady's chair.

———

I am lying on the floor along with everyone in the family, trying to fall asleep through my weary body and my aching gut. It's cold, but the body heat around me is keeping me warm. It's dark out, and the sky is clouded over, with no moon or stars. Beside me is my nine-year-old sister Anali, and she is so soft and sweet and warm against my body. I am so, so unimaginably thankful to the universe that I am having this opportunity to hold her and be with her.

"Calen," she whispers, careful not to wake the others all around us, "are you awake?"

"I am. How about you?"

"I'm awake. I just can't sleep."

"Aww, sweetheart, why not?"

"Because, Calen, I'm so hungry."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry." I keep my voice low and soft and compassionate in the blanketing darkness of the night.

"It's not fair."

"You're right, it's not." In the silence and the secrecy of this moment, I feel like I'm able to agree with her. I feel like it's safe to agree with her.

"Why does the Lady curse the harvest?"

"It's because the town displeases her. The representative of the town that she chooses and speaks with displeases her."

"That's not fair."

"It's really not. But you can't blame the representatives. They try their very best."

"It must be so very scary talking to the Lady."

"It really must be scary, you're right. She holds so much power. So much power over all of our lives."

"Why does she want us to be hungry?"

"Because we didn't respect her enough. We didn't listen to her enough."

"That's not fair, Calen."

"It's really not." I hug her slightly tighter near me. I feel her breathing against me. I feel the warmth that signifies that she has life. "Anali," I start, "I never want you to be hungry. Never, ever, no matter what. But I don't have any power. I don't have any power and I wish I had power and I wish I could help you."

"I wish I could help you too, Calen. I don't want you to be hungry no matter what. I don't want anyone to be hungry."

"I don't want anyone to be hungry either sweetheart." She's so soft and young and sweet. She's so fragile and delicate. She's so kind. So, so very kind. I wish she had power. But she doesn't.

"If I was the Lady I would bless every harvest no matter what."

"Just as you should, my girl. Just as you should. But you're not the Lady. So please try to focus on doing what you can."

"What can I do?"

"Try your best to be kind to everyone. Try your best to love everyone. Just like you're already doing."

"But that's not enough." There is a slight, heart-wrenching whine in her voice.

"You're right, sweetheart." I try to soothe her. "It's not enough. It's not enough. But it's something that we can do."

"Do you think the harvest next year will be blessed?" There's something slightly hopeful about the way that she speaks.

"I hope so. I really do hope so."

"I miss feeling full."

"I really miss it too."

"I really miss not being worried about everyone." She stresses the 'worried.' I understand so well how she feels.

"I miss it too. I miss knowing that everyone is safe."

"It hurts me more, knowing that my family and my friends and my community isn't safe. It hurts me more than my own hunger does."

"That's understandable. I feel exactly the same way. You're such a good soul."

"You too."

"Thanks."

"You don't deserve any of this."

"You don't either. You don't deserve all this need and this hurt and this grief."

"Neither do you."

"Thanks."

"Do you think the Lady will show mercy?"

"It depends. I don't know. I hope so."

"Have there ever been multiple years with no harvest, all together?"

"There have, but it was before you were born."

"I don't think I could stand another year like this. Another year right on top of this one."

"I don't think I could either. We just have to hold onto hope."

"And what if our hope is misplaced?"

"Then we just have to stay strong and get through it."

"What if I lose you? I don't want to lose you." She sounds like she's crying. Well, there are tears in my own eyes too. We can cry together. We can be together. We can take these infinitely precious moments that we have together, because who knows if we'll have any more.

"I don't want to lose you either. But hold on to hope. Please hold on to hope. It's all we have."

My sister takes my hand that's on her chest into her own hand. And we just stay like that for a little while.

"Are you asleep?" she finally asks me.

"Not yet. How about you?"

"Obviously not."

"I'd there anything else you want to talk about?"

"Who do you think will get picked by the Lady next year?"

"I don't know."

"I'm worried."

"Why are you worried? You're far too young to get picked. You know you're far too young to get picked."

"I know, but what if the person who gets picked fails?"

"Then it wouldn't be their fault. It wouldn't be their fault at all."

"But I hope they succeed."

"Me too."

"They've got a really big job in front of them."

"They do in fact have a really, really big job."

"I hope they succeed. I can't stand another year like this. I can't stand another year of hungry babies and dying."

I stroke her hair, and sing her a soft lullaby to help her get to sleep. The night is still and cool around us.

———

I kneel in front of the Lady, on the oddly warm, unnaturally warm tile floors. I keep my eyes down and my thudding heart under wraps. I keep myself as calm as I can be, outwardly. Inside, joy and dread and hope and apprehension all twist together in an unholy, delirious, indescribable mix. I don't know if I succeeded or not. I don't know if I succeeded. I don't know if I failed.

The world around me gets brighter and brighter. Once again, I fight to keep my eyes open through it all. But the pain in my eyes is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I keep myself staring towards the ground even though I can see nothing but pain. I force myself to keep going.

Just a few moments longer, and I should be clear and free.

The light does fade in time, though I have no idea how much time, and I am met with the soft, clouded gray skies around the field of the town. Already memory is rapidly leaving me, my memory of the events that had just passed, just as I knew it would. But the feelings are not leaving me. The feelings are not leaving me at all. I sigh in the slight relief that comes with the ordeal being over, and force myself to stand up. I look around, and see Klaro walking towards me.

"Calen!" He exclaims, "You're back!"

"I am," I reply, giving him a bright, shining smile. I am so, so very relieved to be home again.

I can't help myself, I bolt towards him. He opens up his arms and catches me in a strong, tight hug. And it is at this moment that I finally allow myself to fall apart. I finally allow myself to fall apart like I've been longing to do ever since the fateful moment my name was called. I break out into sobs, ugly-crying with tears streaming from my eyes and my whole body trembling violently.

"There, there," Klaro soothes me. He holds me tightly in his strong arms. Provides a rock for me to cling to in my sea of infinite, swirling emotions. "There, there. You're home now. You're home now and I have you. We all have you."

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

I walk through the green undergrowth, the world around me glowing green as sunlight shines through the crowns of leaves towering above me. I love it here. I love it here so much. But they must not know I'm here. The lord and his men must not know I'm here.

I dig through the brush all around me, on the hunt for herbs to tie under the skirt of my dress and sneak back into my hut. I look for herbs to conduct magic with. Magic that is, completely and absolutely, proscribed for people like us.

You see, magic is only allowed to be practiced by the nobles and royals of this land. But that doesn't change the fact that a secret network of magic users and teachers exists. That doesn't change the fact that secret folk magic practices are created and spread and added onto and perfected, that this has been happening for years. It doesn't change the fact that people still need healing and protecting, for them and for their crops and livestock. And it doesn't change the fact that us regular people have to make magic, no matter what the risks are.

I kneel down on the soft, loamy ground as I come face to face with the plant I need, a short, leafy shrub whose tubers are needed in a protection spell for new babies. I dig my hands into the dirt, the task being far too delicate to use a shovel. I feel around, oh so slowly, until I find a tuber. I break off the tuber, and store it away underneath my skirt. I only need one, and the plant needs all the rest. I pack the dirt I displaced back into its proper place before watering the plant from my water skin.

"Thank you for your gift," I whisper to it, bowing my head.

I walk on through the forest, trying to find where the plants I need could be, based on their optimal growing conditions. Alanthi grows on downward slopes, and so I walk my way through the valley, watching my step so that I do not trample on any plants as I go. I must walk softly on the earth. I must be careful towards her.

The Alanthi bush rises wild and jagged and high above me. And I softly part its branches to reach the green buds that grow inside the guarded exterior of the plant. I gather up a few, no more than what I need, and I put them in the same place as the tuber. I bow to the plant, and thank it for its gift. And I walk on.

In a matter of a few hours, I have collected everything that I sought out to collect. All the medicine that will make the people of my village healthy. And I am walking homewards, to the little hut on the edge of the town that I share with the other magic users.

I am sad that I am leaving the forest, the forest that creeps to the very edge of the town with its protective cover, the forest that can always calm my heart no matter what. But I know that I have much more work to do. I know that I will be back within a few hours.

In the hut, I am met by Cuthbert, who is cutting up his herbs for the potion that he is working on. I put a small metal pan over the great hearth at the centre of our hut and I fill it with water from the stream. Then I place all my herbs inside and allow them to soak.

The stream water is clean and clear and fresh and cool, the perfect water to make a potion for a baby with.

"Is this for Alexa and Katia's new baby?" Cuthbert asks me.

"It sure is."

"I can go give it to the child. That will leave you free to go to this afternoon's meeting. I know how much it meant for you to go."

"Oh, thank you, Cuthbert!" I exclaim. "You're so kind."

"No problem," he replies, smiling to me.

I braid my dark, frizzled hair quickly and put on my boots again. I guess I'll be seeing the forest again sooner than I thought.

The meetings don't have a set location. They just occur wherever the forest decides that they will occur. This is to keep all of us safe, since if no-one knows where the meetings are, no-one can be tortured for information. No-one can give us away.

So I follow the flow of the forest and I let it pull me to wherever it is pulling me to. I follow the flow of the forest and I walk through hills and valleys and streams and thickets. I walk by nests and burrows and springs and logs. And I end up exactly where I need to be. I end up in a large circle formed by all the other witches in the village and the neighbouring villages.

There are not many of us, only a few dozen in total. But there doesn't need to be many of us, because as long as we can heal people and help people, that is enough. That is all we need to do.

I see a new face, as young teenager dressed in a long shirt - or is it a short dress? - and with their hair falling in two golden braids down to their knees. Another new witch for us to teach. How beautiful. I love that our tradition and our magic is still going strong.

"Welcome, everyone." Calliope's voice rings bright and clear from her spot within the circle. "We are gathered here today to conduct our ceremony of communion, where we will all commune with each other and commune with the forest so that our powers can grow in strength and our healing can grow in power."

"Praise be to the forest," we echo as she pauses.

"Today we are also welcoming a new face, the lovely lass Mairinn Clarson. Mairinn, address the gatherers."

"Hi, everyone," her voice is kind of shy. "I'm really excited to be here and to be part of the ceremony of communion. I'm from Thusnelda village and I am learning under the guidance of Taylor Hausen."

"Welcome," we say to her in a messy unison. She blushes. She's so very sweet.

We gather in a circle, amongst the shrubs and the grasses and the herbs all around us. And we hold hands. Clara places a skin of water in the middle of the circle before joining us again. We all look up to face the sky. And we start chanting.

The song is low and melodic and beautiful, out of tune and out of time but so deeply, irrevocably human that it is divine. I let the cool wind, slightly too chilly, blow through my face and my hair. And I cling tightly to the hands all around me, all of us forming an unbroken circle. And I let myself melt into everything.

I am one with the witches all around me. I am one with the kindness and the anger and the fierce protectiveness and the secret subversiveness in all of their hearts. I am one with the forest all around me, with the wild, wild lands where energy and love and guidance and teaching flows through everything in a never ending, interconnected web. I am one with the village that is my hope, the village full of people who are, just as I am, struggling to get by. The village that has my heart and is my heart in its entirety. I am one with all the other villages that dot the hills and valleys and the slope of the mountains. They are all so very different. They are all the same. And all the common people, they are my soul.

I jerk my head straight as danger flows through my connection, as danger floods all my inner senses. The forest is telling us something. Telling us that we need to run. I briefly make eye contact with all the other witches in the circle around me. And in a split second, we bolt, all in different directions, all rushing towards the refuges and the hiding places of the forest.

I let my feet carry me to wherever the forest is pulling me, too full of panic to truly see where I am going. I hear the clopping sounds of hoofbeats thundering behind me. It's the lord's men. It's the lord's men. What do I do? How do I escape them? My lungs burn and my legs burn and my whole being feels as if it is filled with bright, purposeful fire. I hope it will be enough. I hope I can get away. I hope ...

I scream as the rough rope of a net falls over me, making me tumble to the ground. I move my arms to lift it above me. But before I get the chance, I am seized by strong arms clad in hard chain mail and I am held down. I scream and thrash until I am aching and hoarse. But it's no use, as I am tied down and then lifted unceremoniously onto a horse, where I am dumped belly-down like a sack of flour.

I am tied down for the whole, long, painful ride to the castle, terror building up like a sharp spire through my heart. I don't know what will happen next. I do know what will happen next. I will be punished, maybe even killed, for disobeying the lords and practicing magic. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.

But even amid the terror, one thought blooms inside me, strong and sure like a flowing river. I hold onto that thought, and I let it grow like the branches of the oak tree. The thought is simple: whatever happens, I will hold on to my dignity. And I will hold on to my people's dignity.

This does not make the anxiety lessen. Not at all. But it gives me the strength to keep on standing, metaphorically, no matter how much pain I am feeling. No matter how much pain I will feel.

Eventually I am thrown to the floor. A hard, stone floor in a dusty courtyard. Before the rider can get off his horse, I pull myself up to my feet. This seems to be the back entrance of the castle. The place where they bring in prisoners. I feel like throwing up, but I force myself to not. I cannot let them know how afraid I am. I cannot let them know that they are affecting me.

No words are exchanged as I am yanked over to a metal pole against the wall and tied to it. And it is there that I stay until the sun goes down beyond the horizon, and through the darkness and chill of the night, and until the sun once again rises in the east and lights the world in the morning's brightness.

My stomach is aching and my throat is parched dry. But this is not very new. I have gone longer without eating before. All that is new is that I've never done so in the castle. My whole body is exhausted and aching, and my mind is rushing with thoughts of what could possibly happen to me. I am working myself into insanity.

In the bright morning, a figure strolls into the courtyard, flanked by guards on each side. He wears layers and layers of fine clothing in bright fabrics. And he wears a large, trailing fur robe with brightly coloured fur, studded with a line of gems. His boots are polished and made of the finest leather. On his head is an intricate crown. He must be the lord. I stand up straighter and look him dead in his hard, cruel eyes.

"So you're the witch." His voice is smug and haughty.

"So you're the lord," I spit back.

"Why do you cause trouble, trying to use magic? We all know that the common people are weak and pathetic in magic. We all know that only the lords can wield magic strongly."

"Magic isn't just for you and your people," I reply. "Magic is for everyone. And anyone brave enough to disobey your unreasonable laws can wield magic. They can wield it stronger and better than you or even the Queen ever could.

"You are delusional. You are delusional and you don't know your place." His voice has hints of frustration to it. Am I already getting to him? Good. I must keep going at this.

"The magic of the common people is stronger than your magic ever will be. You use your magic and your power to keep all the resources from us. You use your magic to hoard everything and keep it from us. We use our magic to create healing in our communities. You don't know anything."

"It is you who does not know anything," he snarls at me. "I will show you how vastly superior my magic is from your weak and feeble magic."

"You want a bet?" I keep the fear out of my voice. I am not afraid that he might win. He won't. But I am afraid that he will hurt me. But I cannot let him know this.

"A tournament, then. Between you and me. To see who is the better mage."

"You're on." I keep looking into his eyes. "You'll have to untie me though."

And so he does, with a silver glinting knife from his gilded belt.

"Follow me." I follow him into the castle proper, surrounded by guards on each side.

The inside of the castle stretches vast on either side of me. There are so very many rooms. So many objects and idols and statues and furniture and tapestries and rugs and chandeliers and things I cannot even name, stretching out through all sides of me. The colours are so bright, are colours that I have never seen before in my life.

There are wide, clear windows surrounded by thick silken curtains. There are paintings in golden frames adorning the walls. And there are doors. So, so many different doors. And each door leads to another vast room. There are also flowers everywhere. But these are not wildflowers growing free. These are carefully-cultivated garden flowers growing in vases.

I am astounded by the beauty but at the same time I am deeply unnerved and put out by the hollowness of this beauty. By the twistedness of it. Everything is meant to appeal to the senses. But there is no soul in any of the rich surroundings around me. There is nothing intangible, untouchable. It merely all looks good. It is a false sort of beauty.

I am lead to a door engraved in gold, softly glowing in the light, intricately carved.

"Here is where I create all my spells," the lord declares, leading me in.

Inside the room are thousands of jars and cases and chalices containing every sort of expensive material imaginable. It's suffocating in here.

"I'm not impressed," I tell him.

"Oh, you will be. I will show you. I will create the most powerful beast in the kingdom. And then you will see."

He calls his servants to bring forth a chalice filled with the purest of wines. And he pours the deep red liquid onto a twisted set of crystal spires. The wine collects in the platinum bowl at the bottom of the spires. And he has his servants lift up the bowl. In dark, black ink he writes something in the fine parchment in front of him. I do not know what he wrote, because I cannot read or write. But I see him soak the parchment in the bowl of wine. The next thing I see is him using a gem-encrusted mortar and pellet to crush pearls that look more expensive than our entire village. He plays a strange string instrument.

And there is a swirling, glowing flow of gold dancing through the air. It forms the shape of a cougar, and starts glowing brighter than ever before. The petals of the rose come falling from the roof. And there is a strange warmth emanating throughout the entire room. I look at the lord, who is still playing his instrument.

I look back, and see a large cougar made of gold, with sharp, snarling teeth and rubies for eyes. I gasp slightly, afraid of the unnatural creature as it prowls up and down the room, growling and snapping, moving as fluidly as it would if it were real.

"Do you see this beast?" He declares grandly to me. "It will be able to kill any animal. None will be able to hold up against it!"

"I can create a creature with more power." My words are soft and solemn, strong and unshaking.

"I would like to see you try."

"Then just watch." I do not even hesitate for a second to reply to him.

I make my way out of the castle, towards the village. At the edge of the village, beside the forest, I kneel down.

"Mother earth, please build for me a life," I whisper, kneeling down on both knees, hands flat against the earth.

I rise, and find a patch of dirt that is uncovered by vegetation. I lay my hands on this earth and let it stick onto my fingers. I then stroke the blades of grass underneath me, starting at their bases and slowly working my way up, letting the earth coat them lightly. I raise my hands up to the sky and look up.

"Father sky, please build for me a life," I whisper. And I hold my hands up in contact with the air.

I go to the stream, and bring both of my hands down gently, at the stream's side, each hand soaked on one half by the water.

"Parent water, please build for me a life."

I walk in a circle. There is a gust of wind. And all at once, in the middle of the circle stands a baby wood bison, with thick brown fur and blunt teeth.

"Your creature is weak and pathetic," the lord tells me from atop his horse. "My beast could kill it easily."

"Do you want to see?" I ask him. "Let me up on your horse."

"A commoner, on a horse? That is absolutely preposterous!"

"It sounds to me like you're just scared," I taunt.

"Okay, fine."

He helps me up, and we watch as he calls his cougar to us. The snarling beast takes one look at the baby wood bison and starts running towards it, greedy for meat to feast upon. The bison runs towards the forest, and we follow.

For many minutes, the cougar gives chase to the baby bison. And truly, there are certain moments in which I worry that maybe it will kill the baby after all. But the baby bison stays strong and runs through the forest, knowing exactly where to go. And it makes me proud. It makes me so very proud.

It starts to look as if the cougar is catching up to the bison. But just as it's getting close, the bison finds the herd of other wood bison that live in this forest. The baby melts into the herd, rushing into its safety. And the adults all gather together in front of the cougar, protecting the young and weak members of the herd from its teeth and claws.

The cougar stops dead in its tracks, obviously afraid at the numerous bison with their sharp horns. But before it can run away, all the bison charge together, piercing its golden fur with their horns. The cougar sprawls out on the ground, crying in agony, as deep red wine bleeds from its insides.

"What did I tell you?" I ask the lord.

He is too astounded to answer.

"Well, you may have won this round," he finally concedes, "but that was only through cunning and trickery. The next challenge I am sure you will concede on."

"Oh yeah?" I ask, still looking at the carcass of the golden cougar. "Bring it on."

"I challenge you to find the most precious thing in the kingdom. If you can find something more precious than I do, then you will have won."

"Okay." I keep my voice calm and cool and slightly ired. I cannot let him know the fear I am feeling deep within my heart. Though, the fear is less than it used to be before.

"I will find the most precious thing. And if you can find anything more precious, you will win."

"Okay."

He brings us back to the castle, and to his magic room. There, he rubs the hilts of two sharp swords against each other and lays them on his grand mahogany table. Upon the swords, he places a dainty ivory spyglass. I have never seen a spyglass in real life before, I have only heard about them in stories. He gathers a chalice full of precious gems and gold and silver nuggets. And, chanting some words, he pours them onto the spyglass and the swords. He then empties a chalice of some dark liquid onto the pile. And once again, he plays his instrument.

A ribbon of flowing, glowing silver manifests in the air above us, and he takes me by the wrist as we follow it out the door.

He gathers a fleet of his knights to go out with him. He attractes a knife to his boot. I hang on to him as he rides his horse, too close for either of our comforts. We ride for two days and two nights, stopping at different villages to eat. It is an exhausting journey. A tense journey. A difficult journey. We exchange no more words than necessary. At least he is giving me food.

He follows a stream of silver that dances and glows above our heads, glinting in the sunlight. This strange air he had manifested by once again playing his strange stringed instrument and doing his elaborate rituals.

Finally, we come upon a meadow near a village.

"Here," he pronounces, "lies the most precious thing in the kingdom.

He calls the village folk and commands them to dig. And so they do. For many days and nights they dig, the hole getting deeper and deeper. Finally, someone hits something hard. At first we all think it is just a rock. But it turns out to be an unpolished hunk of diamond, as big as my torso. There is a great effort to mine it out.

"I would like to see you top that," he gloats.

"Alright," I reply, letting the sneakiness inside me show.

I get off the horse and start walking to the forest. The lord and his men follow.

"Please show me the way, forest," I beseech.

Inside the forest, there is a pull in my heart, secret and untraceable, showing me where to go. It pulls me this way and that, through stretches of forest that I am altogether unfamiliar with. I walk and I walk, for days on end, eating berries I find and drinking from rivers and streams. The men follow me, and they grumble about how exhausted they are, about how this journey is taking forever.

The forest leads me to the mountains. And I climb the mountains. I climb the mountains for days on end, not keeping track of how much time has passed. The knights complain that I am wasting their time. And the lord tells me that if this turns out to be for nothing, he will have my head.

I know that he will have my head anyways.

I keep on following the tug in my heart as it leads me through the forest. I finally get near the summit of a mountain, and I point up to the rain clouds forming above us.

"This," I tell everyone, "is the most precious thing in the kingdom. The rain on the mountains which fill all of our rivers and streams with water."

"What nonsense!" The lord exclaims. "How can simple water be precious?"

"You have never known thirst," I explain to him, "you would never understand."

We exchange no words during the long trek back.

When the lord is at his beloved castle, he sinks down upon his large, plush bed with sheer curtains hanging from a frame surrounding it. I sit down beside him, and he is too exhausted to tell me anything.

"I won both rounds," I state.

"No you did not," he retorts.

"Yes I did," I reply back.

"I found a diamond. What you found was some simple water. Mine was far more precious."

I laugh at this, an ugly, unseemly laugh, and he gets very agitated.

"I will have your head!" He shouts at me.

"If you want my head then take it," I quip. "I do not care much for something as fleeting as a head."

At this, he gets even more agitated, which makes me just laugh louder.

"Anyways," I tell him, "Even if you did win this round, which you didn't, we would still be tied one to one."

"Fine. You're right. We should do one more challenge to set the record straight once and for all."

"What challenge do you want to do? You've chosen all the other challenges thus far." I lie down onto the plush softness of the bed. I lie down beside the lord. And he does not even do anything to stop me. This bed is far softer than anything I have ever experienced in my life. I like it. Though I know it was made with the blood of my people.

"I will let you know," he replies, "just give me a few days of rest."

I am lead back to the courtyard I was brought into that first fateful day. And I am once again tied to the post by the wall. This time they do bring me food, but only once a day. It is okay, I have survived on less. I keep track of the movement of the sun in the sky. I keep track of how many times it sets and rises. And I pray. I pray with everything that I have, to all the goodly forces of the world, that something good can come of my life, no matter how it ends.

Finally, after four days are through, the lord makes his way down to see me, freeing me from my bonds but keeping a circle of guards around me so that I can't escape.

"What is your challenge?" I ask him, putting as much confidence, both false and real, as I can behind my voice.

"I challenge you to go to all the corners of the vast kingdom in within three days. I can travel far and wide using my magic. I would wager that you cannot travel beyond your pathetic little village."

"If that is what you wager, then I am sorry but you will lose."

"We shall see who loses." He smirks at me, and there is mirth in his eyes. There is hatred in mine.

He takes me in a twisting path through the vast courtyard. We arrive at last to the stables, grand and clean and full of impressive horses. He gets his stable hand to bring him two horses. These he leads back to his magic room, taking them in through the castle. I get to see even more of the vast, stretching rooms filled with unimaginable wealth that make up the residence of the lord. I am very uncomfortable yet awed in a strange way at the same time.

Finally, we get to the magic room. There, the lord takes the horses and drapes them with silken sheets, layers and layers of blooming colours and twisting patterns. Then he takes a silver knife and, much to my ire, makes two slots in the silk, on the backs of each horse but not cutting through the skin. He takes a peacock feather and lightly brushes each horse down. I can only imagine what the horses are feeling. They surprisingly have been calm throughout this whole ordeal.

The horses start glowing, uncomfortably bright, and small shining flecks start flying everywhere around the room. There is a swirling wind that carries brightly-coloured smoke. And I watch as it swirls around the horses.

Everything calms down, and I see that now the horses have silver wings on their backs. I can see where this is going.

"Impressive, huh?" The lord asks me, smiling at his own actions.

"I've seen better," I retort nonchalantly.

"Get in the carriage. We're going on a trip."

"If you insist." I smile at him, to show that I'm not scared. Once again the guards flank us, but as we enter the plush insides of the lord's polished carriage, they do not come in with us.

I am still entirely trapped, though, as the doors lock from the outside and the thick glass windows bar me from climbing out.

The horses are attached to the carriage with silken ropes and the lord chants to make them start flying, no-one at the reins. We quickly ascend to the sky, and I look out the window to see the world tiny underneath me. Everything looks so small and insignificant. As if all that matters is myself and the lord.

I remind myself that this isn't true. I try to ground myself. Thankfully, I succeed.

"So what do you do?" He asks me.

"I farm. I take care of the village children. I practice magic." I try to keep my answers vague.

"And how did you learn this magic?"

"From my mentor." If he thinks he can interrogate information from me, he's got another thing coming.

"And who is your mentor?"

"That's for me to know and you to wonder."

"How do you manage to be so insolent?"

"I know I'm dead no matter what, so I might as well have fun."

"You're outstandingly strong. I've never met a woman like you before."

"Oh, really?" I hide how not-strong I am feeling on the inside.

"Yes. Strong. Brave. Good at magic. You're a real rarity."

"And you're a real halfwit."

He bursts out laughing at this, oblivious to the hatred behind my words. I simply look at him coolly and smile.

Eventually the ride through the kingdom is over and I am escorted back to the castle courtyard.

"Now it's my turn." I smile. "You could go to the whole kingdom. And that's impressive. But I can be everywhere in the kingdom at once."

"As if. That doesn't remotely make sense."

The lord and his guards follow me to the grass field to the east of the village. There I sit down on my knees. I close my eyes. And I breathe deeply. I can feel the cold springtime air blowing over my body, giving me sharp energy. I can feel the rays of the sun on me. I can feel my place, here, in the meadow, by the village. And I almost feel at home.

I breathe. And I breathe. And I breathe again. And I feel all the emotions inside of me. All the rage and the hate and the pain. I feel all the fear and the hope. I feel all the love and the community and the joy. And I feel the way these emotions connect me to everyone in the whole entire kingdom, barring the nobles of course. I feel the way that these emotions echo and change and reverberate within all the common people in the kingdom, connecting us all.

I let my soul come out of my body and I let my body come out of the world and I let everything connect itself back to the forest. I feel all the very many, infinite threads connecting all of us common folk together, the threads connecting us to the wild lands and the mountains and the hills and the rivers and the dales. I let everything come together and I let everything take me apart, take me apart into every direction. I am where I am meant to be, where I was all along.

I feel at one with everything. I feel at one with everyone. I am everyone, I am every single living thing in this kingdom, all at the same time. They all flow into me and I flow into all of them. I live their lives, I feel their heartache, I experience their joy.

I feel at once not in the world and completely in the world at the same time.

Everyone's lives flow through me and are a part of me as if they are my own. As if I am theirs. And they are my own. They have been my own since before I first drew breath, since before I first moved within my father's womb. And they will be my own long after I am gone from this world. And I have always been theirs. I have been theirs since before this kingdom was made and I will be theirs long after it falls to ruin.

I have always been everyone. I have always been everyone and everyone has always been me. It is just that in this moment, I am focusing on it. In this moment I am focusing on how I am everyone and everyone is me. And I am letting it overcome me and overwhelm me and take up all the parts of my consciousness. And so I am projecting to every village in the whole kingdom. I am projecting to everyone.

I am also projecting to every grain of dirt, through every stretch of sky, to every ray of sun. I am all the nature and all the nature is me and all the nature is everyone else and everyone else is all the nature. The trees, the shrubs, the bushes, the herbs, the grasses. They are all a part of me and I am all a part of them. The rivers and streams and hidden healing springs within the forest. I exist in all of that water, and all of that water exists in me. Everyone exists in all of that water and all of that water exists is everyone simultaneously at the same time. I am the wolf that stalks through the trees and I am the moose that eats the green leaves and I am the bird that sings its bright song and I am the bedrock that was here all along.

And it's painful. It is so, so incredibly, overwhelmingly painful. It is unbearably painful. I feel everyone's pain as if it were my own. I feel everyone's pain and it is my own. It has been my own for much longer than I have lived. It will be my own for long after I die. But now I am focusing on it. I am focusing on it and on all the deep injustices that paint everyone's lives. All the very many sources of pain that pierce through everyone's experiences. I am feeling it all and I am becoming one with it.

I do not only feel the people's pain, but I feel nature's pain as well. I feel the ever present pain of the air. I feel the burning pain of the sun. I feel the grieving pain of all the plants and the animals. I feel the flowing pain of all the waters. I am them and they are me and their pain is my pain.

Nature grieves because the people grieve. Nature aches because the people ache. Nature mourns that we are seperated from her and that she cannot protect us, that she cannot keep us safe from each and every kind of harm, the way that she could in times long since gone by and now just barely remembered. Nature's pain is a mother's pain. And oh, how very deeply I feel her.

But I also feel joy. Too much joy for me to contain. All the joy the people have from having each other. All the joy people feel from seeing their children smile. All the joy that people feel from meeting kind strangers. The joy of meals, however meagre, shared by the hearth. The joy of coming together in bright song. The joy of feeling the sun on our skin and the air in our lungs. The joy of sharing stories in the darkness of the night. Of small resistances to the ruling forms of power. Of having hope that these power systems will come to and end.

I feel the joy that nature feels each and every time it can be with someone, be by someone, each and every time that it can help someone in ways big and small, in ways that are physical, or mental, or emotional, or spiritual.

I feel the joy that people feel that their people are still existing,

I feel the joy that nature feels that it is still existing.

I feel the joy that people feel that nature is still existing.

I feel the joy that nature feels that the people are still existing.

I feel the hope that all life feels that one day things will be better, one day things will be kinder, one day things will be fair and universally equal. And all this joy and all this anguish and all these infinite different emotions felt in an infinity of different ways tears me apart and brings me together in ways that I will never be able to describe, ways that I will never be able to explain. Not even to myself.

All I can do is feel it. All I can do is feel everything that the Creator has created and let it be so intimately tied with me that it is me and I am it.

I do not know whether I am alive or dead. All I know is that we exist, we exist, we exist. All together, all within one another, all a part of one another, we exist. And we are beautiful. And the nature that created us is beautiful. And it all is so very beautiful and broken and strong and fragile and betrayed and perfect.

And I stay in this state of agony and bliss until I feel something on my body. Warm, soft, deeply unsettling hands on my shoulders. I startle and look up, immersed back into the regular, terrible flow of my life.

The lord is looking at me, amazement carved onto his entire face.

"How ... how did you do that?" he asks. His voice is dazed and confused.

"A true magician never tells her secrets," I reply.

"I've never seen anything like it. It must be a rare practice indeed."

This form of magic that I just did is the easiest form of magic to do. It requires no teaching, no bravery, just a lookout to make sure no nobles or guards are coming. And this is a form of magic that literally all of the common people practice. I don't tell him this of course. Of course I don't tell him this. I have to keep my people safe after all.

"Maybe it is," I tell him. Surprisingly, he smiles.

"Well, you've definitely won this round. But how about one more round to see who wins once and for all?" His voice has a softness to it that wasn't there before.

"Sure, why not? Though actually, I've won every round."

"Anyways, what do you think the final test will be?"

"I'm ready for anything, your lordship." I pour sarcasm into his title so that he knows I'm not afraid of him.

"I need time to think. Why don't you come to the castle with me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

I follow him to his rooms, trailed by guards. I feel sorry for the guards. I feel incredibly sorry for them. And, looking back at it, I think I always did. They have to put up with the lord all the time. But I can say nothing as I follow the lord. In his large chambers, the door locks behind me.

"So I would like to get to know you a little better," he tells me, sitting on a plush red and black chaise.

"There's nothing about me that would interest you."

"Well, how old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Okay."

"What about your family? What are they like?"

"They're kind." The less that he knows, the better.

"And what of your mother? Was she a witch like you?"

"No. Will you let me go home?"

"No."

We keep on talking until dinner arrives. He gets something I can't even name, with juicy meat and bright vegetables and thick sauces. Along with that he gets a chalice of fine wine. I get a simple bowl of porridge and a glass of simple water. It's something, at least. At the very least I won't be hungry. We eat together in tenseness.

"Where will I sleep?" I ask him once dinner is over.

"I'll take my small bed. You can have the large one."

"Thank you."

I let myself feel the soft bed underneath me and the satin blankets above me. I let myself feel whatever pleasures I can, pleasures that have been denied me for all of my life, pleasures I'll never feel again once I am dead.

I wonder why he's being so kind to me. He must be impressed with my magic.

The morning doesn't bring its usual brightness but rather strange, colourful tinted light. Light that is far too bright to be natural and far too unnatural to be pleasant. The lord greets me from his room, standing in front of the locked door.

"Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning my lord."

"I think I know what our final challenge will be."

"Oh? What will it be?"

"We will see who can create the most beautiful thing."

"Oh that? That's easy."

"We will see."

We eat breakfast in the large, long dining hall and it is so, so deeply uncomfortable to be waited on by servants.

"How did you enjoy your night?" His voice is smooth and unnerving.

"It was okay. How about you?"

"I missed my bed, but I plan on sleeping there again tonight."

"Okay." Tonight. After my execution. Fuck.

"So tell me, how you learned your magic."

"No."

He keeps trying to ask me questions for the rest of breakfast.

Finally I follow him to his magic room. In it, I see things that were not there before. Gems that sparkle and shine brighter than all the others. A large rod of platinum. Lustrous pearls. An assortment of what vaguely resembles tools.

Ho says no words and gets to work, pouring wine by the chalice into a bowl large enough to bathe a baby in. He then sets it on fire, and into the fire he places the platinum. He also puts the gems and the pearls into the fire. Next, he creates a ring around the bowl made of ivory and jade arranged into intricate shapes. He plunges a knife into a ring necked dove, and I watch in horror as it struggles and screams, and he pours the blood of the bird onto the fire. He gets his peacock feathers and burns them, along with the neck feathers of the dove. And finally, he writes something long and fine with his ink and places it over the bowl.

A thousand pink leaf-like flakes of different sizes and shapes manifests into the air. They swirl all around the room, coalescing by the bowl full of treasures. There they all join together and started to glow. It's beautiful to see but there's something deeply wrong about it. There is something deeply twisted.

Eventually the glowing subsides and in the bowl there is a beautiful platinum crown, as tall as my hand is long, shining in the firelight, finely-shaped in all sorts of flowing metallic swirls and curls, encrusted with all sorts of gems and pearls.

"Isn't it beautiful?" The lord asks me.

"I can do better," I tell him. And my words come out clear and confident. And they are not a lie.

I walk to the peach tree in the courtyard, growing by the shadows of the outer wall. I reach on my tip toes and pick a few peaches, and put them in my uplifted skirt. I walk through the brisk spring morning to the village. And I find a group of young children playing on the streets. Alex, Clementine, Seraphina, and Sparrow. The youngest one is only year old and the oldest one is five.

"Hi guys." I sing brightly as I stoop down to smile at them.

"Hi Aunt Marianna," they chime back in unison. I'm not really their aunt but I am their aunt anyways. They stare at the guards behind me, awed and more than a little terrified.

"Don't mind the guards," I tell the children, "they won't hurt you. I promise."

"Why they here?" Little Seraphina asks in her baby voice.

"There's just following me. Anyways, I got you guys some peaches from the lord's own garden."

"From the lord's own garden?" Alex exclaims, pronouncing their r's as l's.

"Yes, children, they're for you." I hand them out to each child.

"Wow! Thank you!" Sparrow exclaims. They all hold the fruits in their hands and they smile.

"You see, my lord?" I turn to him. "The most beautiful thing in the world."

He stands there, not saying anything.

I turn back to the kids.

"Now you enjoy those peaches, I tell them. "And have fun. I'm really sorry, but Aunt Marianna needs to go back to the castle."

"Why?"

"Because the lord wants me there," I respond.

On the walk back to the castle the lord asks me

"How was that beautiful?"

"The smile of a child, my lord," I try to explain to him, "it's the most beautiful thing there is."

"I don't see what you see."

"And I suppose you can't, with all your statues and thrones."

"You are a rather strange woman. Anyways, you didn't even use magic."

"Didn't I?" I smile mysteriously.

"I have a question to ask you," the lord tells me, quite urgently, once we get back to the castle.

"Okay," I reply, trying to keep the building dread out of my voice.

"Go to my rooms," he bids me, and I obey.

I sit on the bed, trying to breathe slowly and deeply, in the way that Anna taught me a few years ago.

After what feels like an eternity, the lord walks in with the crown that he made. He gets on one knee in front of me, holding out the crown,

"My dear maiden Marianna," he says to me, "I am awed and amazed by your skills and talents in the magical art. I do admit, I was quite doubtful at first. But you have proven yourself to be very worthy. Most rare amongst the commoners. So rare, in fact, that I have realized that you must not be a commoner at all, but rather a noble who got lost at birth and was taken in by the peasants. In light of this, and knowing the fact that all the nobles must stay together as one group, I am asking you to marry me, and to be my lady. I am really rather enamoured by you and would be honoured to be your husband."

I don't know how to respond. At all. In my shock I start laughing. I laugh because of how stupid it is, because he thinks I am a lost noble because of my magic abilities. Really, my magic abilities are rather average. The olds mages who teach the newer recruits know far more than I, and can do far more.

"Why are you laughing?" the lord asks, rather taken aback.

"I'm sorry," I manage to stutter our through giggles, "it's just, your stupidity."

"My what?"

I keep laughing for a while, before I am able to answer.

"You think that I'm a noble tragically separated from her high born roots. But I'm just a normal girl, with no noble blood."

"Preposterous. You must be from a noble family. You just don't know it. To bring you back to the high background where you belong, I will make you my wife, my lady."

"I'm not some foundling. My father and mother had me and they raised me and the village is all I have ever known."

"Absurd. No normal girl would be able to be so very adept in magic."

At this I burst into another fit of laughter. This is so absurd. So very absurd. Me sitting on a soft bed with silken sheets while the lord of my county kneels in front of me, insisting that I am of noble blood. And simply because I'm average at magic. Simply because I am average at magic!

"My lord. I'm sorry. I am just a normal girl who practices witchcraft. Not anything else."

"So how do you explain then that you are so skilled in magic?"

"All people have magic inside of them. All people can express the magic inside of them, if they are just given the chance. The nobles are not better than anyone else in the use of magic. The nobles are average. Dare I say, they are less than average, because they are not at all connected to their magical source. But the only reason the common people cannot express their magic is because you and your people forbid it. You and your people prevent us from using the gifts we all have. But still, some of us are brave enough to go against your rule and learn the craft anyways."

"Wow. Being forced to live as a peasant has really made you delusional." What? He didn't even listen to me. He didn't even take my argument seriously, he just brushed it off. He is insufferable.

"I'm not delusional, you are." There is no mirth or softness left in my hard voice.

"Whatever your delusions may be, will you marry me? I will offer you a fine life full of servants and luxury."

I think about this for a while.

Marrying him would be my only shot at life. It would be the only way I could get out of this situation free. He wouldn't hurt me if we were married. He wouldn't hurt me, or my parents, or my siblings, or my roommates. He wouldn't hurt my village. And I could be alive. This is perhaps my only shot at being alive. If I said yes, if I said yes despite all that my heart is protesting, then I could be alive and free.

But, free? Would I really be free in a large castle, bound to this noble man, with an army of servants at my beck and call? Would I really be free despite having to warm his bed in the nights, having to be by his side in the days, having to live the sort of life that all the nobles live? Would it be authentic? Would it be real? Would it be me?

It feels like a betrayal, agreeing to marry him. A betrayal to my family, a betrayal to my fellow witches, a betrayal to my people. But most of all, it feels like it is a betrayal to me. I'm brave. I don't give in to fear. I don't sign my life away, sign my freedom away, sign myself away simply for the chance at continuing to survive. I went against the prohibition in order to study witchcraft. I can go against this lord's power, against his wishes.

I harden my gut and swallow down the fear that I am feeling.

"I won't marry you." My voice rings clear.

The lord looks taken aback, looks astonished, looks genuinely hurt.

"What?" There is confusion and betrayal in his voice.

"I won't marry you," I repeat, simply.

"Well then," his voice is like a hurt child's, but his features quickly harden, "I guess I will have to have you executed for practicing magic without authorization."

"Do it then." I fight with everything I have to make sure that my voice doesn't tremble.

I force myself to walk on my numb legs as I am led out of the lord's room and into a section of the castle that I have never been to before. It is so hard to breathe. I feel as though I am moving underwater. Everything feels unreal, as if it's a dream. Everything feels more real than it has ever felt before. I thought I was prepared for death but in reality I was not prepared. I was not prepared at all. I am not prepared at all.

In the end I am taken to a room that is far too bright for the gruesome brutality that is meant to go on inside it. There is an execution block in the middle of the small courtyard. And I am led to this block. One of the guards takes his place as the executioner. It must be a horrid job, and I wish I could free him of it. I wish I could free all the guards.

I take a deep breath, the last breath I will take in my life. And I feel the sun against my skin. For the last time in my life.

3.

2.

1.

The heavy, ripping, searing pain screams through my neck like bright hot fire. The world goes black. But I don't die. I don't die. Or do I die? I don't know.

I feel strange, as if I am filled with a strange, brimming energy. It feels bright and buzzing and so very natural, as if it was meant to be all along. There is no more pain.

The blackness goes away and I find myself staring down at my own beheaded body, gruesome and horrible. I lie limp and ashen, bright red blood pooling all around me. The lord is kneeling beside my remains, and I see him lift my limp hand to his lips.

I close my eyes. And when I open them, I am back in the forest, deep within its depths where no guards can find me. I feel a power within me. A power that I didn't possess before. It flows through me strong and calming and oh-so-very protective, oh-so-very fierce. I feel like a mother moose with calves and antlers and nothing but the feral need for the preservation of the youth. I feel like the river that flows through all the lands, protecting and nourishing them.

I have power now. I have power. And I can use this power to protect the forest. To protect my people.

And so I do. Forever after, I create a protective barrier around the forest, so that no noble may ever gain entry, so that the common people, witch and non-witch alike, can be safe while they are within its protective embrace. Safe to practice magic and to love and gather food find refuge and haven.

I am one with the forest. I am one with the people. And as long as either the forest or the people survive, I will never die.

Our names are _____ and we are from _______. We are writing to you today to ask that you stop discriminating against First Nations children and their families and communities. We ask that you adequately fund services on reserves so that the people there can have their needs met. We ask that you negotiate with First Nations communities themselves, and all First Nations communities, to create a Final Settlement Agreement on Longterm Reform of First Nations Child and Family Services that is better than the pathetic Draft Final Settlement Agreement you have now. We need an actually good agreement on child and family services that will actually guarantee that all current and future First Nations children will be able to stay with the families that love them and be safe. You also need to make sure all children and youth needing Jordan's Principle services get them in an adequately fast time. The Final Settlement Agreement on Jordan's Principle needs to also be adequate to permanently ensure all children and youth get the services they need in a timely manner. We ask that you phase out the ineffective institution of Indigenous Services Canada and replace it with an Indigenous-run treasury board. Finally, we ask that you adequately fund and support education on reserves so that the educational needs of the children are met and they receive educational outcomes equal to that of non-Indigenous children.

There are so many problems facing First Nations children, especially on reserves. Problems that are caused by the willful and cruel behaviour of the Canadian government. Canada's discrimination against First Nations children is deep, severe, and widespread. And it is causing immense damage to the lives of children.

The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal has made many orders to Canada to stop the discriminatory conduct, and yet Canada has not rooted out the discrimination and inequity in its dealings with First Nations children, families, and communities.

First, let's talk about the situation with Child and Family Services. For decades, Canada has underfunded prevention services that keep families together. This leads to children being taken from their homes, their families, their loved ones. It leads to children being placed in foster care where they cannot be with their families who love them and who they love. First Nations children who are taken from their families are the vast majority of times not being abused. Their families are simply poor, or disabled, or struggling with addiction, or mentally ill, and they are trying their best to take care of their children despite the factors that they have no control over. If equitable and effective prevention services are funded, developed, and put into action, then instead of taking children away, child and family services could help to give families what they need in order for their children to have the childhoods they deserve.

During child welfare investigations, First Nations children are 17 times more likely to be taken from their homes, not due to abuse, but due to their families being poor or struggling. There are more First Nations children taken from their homes now than there was at the height of the residential school era. This is all horrific. Children need their families, and taking children away from their families causes immense and lifelong trauma, causing mental illnesses and even physical illnesses.

Canada has been negotiating with some First Nations representative groups to create a Draft Final Settlement Agreement on long term reform of child and family services. But there are many problems with this agreement.

First of all, the negotiations that lead to the Draft Final Settlement Agreement were kept secret from the public, including the public of the First Nations communities themselves. If the process of negotiation is kept hidden from the First Nations communities, then the communities cannot meaningfully affect the creation of the Draft Final Settlement Agreement and its contents. This is not democratic. Victims of previous discrimination, notably, have been left out of the negotiation process that lead to the current draft.

Secondly, not all First Nations communities could send their representatives to the negotiation table. This means that some First Nations communities were completely left out when it came to the process of creating the draft, since they were not even able to send representatives.

Experts in child and family services and child wellbeing were also not consulted in the making of the Draft Final Settlement Agreement on child and family service reform.

Along with being exclusionary and undemocratic, the Draft Final Settlement Agreement also does not solve the problem of prevention services facing a lack of funding. The reason families can't get the help they need and are separated is because prevention services to give families help is currently underfunded. And they will continue to be so under the Draft Final Settlement Agreement.

First of all, the $47 billion in projected funding over ten years is simply a projection, a prediction, it is not a guarantee of any sort. The funding for prevention services will depend each year on a vote by the House of Commons, and is therefore subject to the whims of government and politics. Secondly, after the next nine years, there isn't even a prediction of funding. We don't have any idea what funding for prevention services will be like after the ten years run out. The funding structure is not effective, according to the Institute of Fiscal Studies and Democracy. What's more, the projected $47 billion over ten years is unlikely to be enough to adequately fund prevention services. Especially since we don't know how much of it is actually going to go to prevention services and not governance or things like that.

The way that reforms will be made to family service provision on reserves is also flawed. The Reform Implementation Committee will be responsible for figuring out what things to change with the way child and family services is carried out on each reserve. However, the Reform Implementation Comitte's work will be secret. What changes they will make will be kept secret until the changes are already put in place. This is an undemocratic way of doing things and does not let the public, especially the public of the First Nations communities, be involved in the reform process. It also doesn't not let civil society be involved. Because of these two things, the reforms that get put into place by the Reform Implementation Committee will likely not be effective in creating child and family services that keep children with their families.

Not to mention, the recommendations the Reform Implementation Committee call for will need to be agreed to by the Canadian government. The Reform Implementation Committee for child and family services will make a report that is kept secret from the public, which will have the changes it wants to put in place. The federal government will have the power to either green light or veto these changes, depending on whether the government likes them or not. Given the government's track record of continually trying to take kids from their homes for decades, the government will not allow changes to happen to service provision that actually keep loving families together.

The Draft Final Settlement Agreement will also have a secretariat who will gather, analyze, and share information about child and family services and what the results are for children and families. Yet this secretariat will not be independent from the government and apolitical. This means that the work that it does will be biased and untrustworthy.

The Final Settlement Agreement needs to put provisions in place that ensure that if any discrimination or inequity is happening at any level of family service provision, that discrimination/inequity gets identified, addressed, and solved. They need to have a mechanism that is effective at solving any problems that arise and is enshrined in law for future generations, while being able improve over time.

The Alternative Dispute Resolution Process in the Draft Final Settlement Agreement does not do that. First of all, this dispute resolution process only lasts for ten years, and there is no mechanism to deal with problems after ten years is up. Secondly, the Alternative Dispute Resolution mechanism has no power to force Canada to act in specific ways or change its specific actions, therefore letting Canada not do what it needs to do in order to be equal and equitable. The mechanism cannot ask for damage compensation, and it also cannot do anything about systemic issues. As well, the employees in this process have no requirement to be impartial and apolitical, which compromises their ability to act in just ways. The mechanism cannot even ask for more funding of prevention services or funding of new service components.

The Alternative Dispute Resolution Process does not protect the human rights of First Nations children and families. First of all, people making claims under this mechanism lose the rights they have under the Human Rights Act. Communities cannot make any human rights claims regarding the issues "addressed" in the Draft Final Settlement Agreement. And there are no measures stopping the government from legally retaliating against people making claims in this process.

There are other problems as well. As well, the dispute resolution process takes a long time, which means that urgent cases involving children who need help immediately are stalled and the children suffer. And if a person or family wants to bring up complex cases with the Alternative Dispute Resolution Process, they do not get their legal representation funded. This means that many people cannot bring up the problems that they are having, problems that need to be addressed, due to not having the money for legal representation.

The Draft Final Settlement Agreement limits the definition of First Nations Child to the definition under the Indian Act. This leaves many First Nations children out, because there are many children who are recognized by their First Nations communities but not recognized under the Indian Act, and these children also need services.

There is also not adequate funding to help First Nations people self-advocate for their needs. Band representation services help First Nations people be directly involved in individual child welfare cases. This is very important, because each child welfare case determines the fate of a child and their family. If the communities, families and children involved in the case have band representation services, then they can have their voices, desires, and needs be heard better during the case, and this will help them stop injustice from happening. However, in most communities, band representation services are underfunded. Off-reserve, Indigenous people have no access to band representation services at all.

Other problems with this draft include that once signed, it cannot be changed if some aspects of it are harmful, it doesn't hold up the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, and it gives Canada too much power over child and family service providers as opposed to giving power to the First Nations themselves.

Chiefs across Canada have called on the federal government and the other negotiating parties to create a better agreement, an agreement that is actually effective at stopping the trauma, injustice, and discrimination First Nations children, both on and off reserve, are being faced with due to the current child and family service model. They have created the National Children's Chiefs Committee to push for true and effective change, so that children can stay with the families who love them. They monitor the reform of Jordan's Principle services (more on that later) and child and family services, and report back to First Nations representatives across the country.

So what should an actually good Final Settlement Agreement, which is better than this draft, be like? First Nations communities, First Nations experts, and other experts working closely with First Nations communities have many ideas for how to bring real reform. The child and family services of each community should be unique to the community and its needs, and should be developed by each community. Services should be lead by the communities they serve. And any changes or reforms should be adequately reviewed by each community before being put into place to ensure that the community wants the changes being made and that the ideas and desires of the community are included. Regional and subregional organizations representing First Nations communities should also have their voices heard and included, and also deserve to have funding to be able to be involved in the negotiation and in other negotiations and issues.

Parties involved in the negotiation of this agreement should be allowed to go to the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal to bring up any necessary cases while negotiations are in place. This is because the Canadian government continues to deal cruelly with First Nations children and families while the negotiations for reform are in place. And therefore, parties need to be able to go to the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal to seek help for children and families who are being treated unfairly while the negotiation process is in place.

There should be a National Advisory Committe made up of First Nations people that has representatives from every First Nation community. There should also be a transparent and independant Expert Advisory Committee that includes independant and credible experts vetted by the communities. The National Advisory Committee, the Expert Advisory Committee, and most importantly First Nations communities themselves should be the ones leading the reforms.

Child and family services should be holistic and multigenerational, taking into account the physical, cognitive, emotional, psychological, spiritual, and social needs of the children. Services should help children have a sense of belonging and attachment to their families and communities. They need to be given good educations, healthcare, housing, and other basic necessities. And services must help children be part of and immersed in their languages, cultures, and heritages. We need to actually help the families to have their needs met, we need to actually help the children to have their needs met, instead of taking children from their families.

Prevention services should include income support, housing, education and employment opportunities, tutoring, after-school clubs, recreational and cultural programs, childcare, therapy, counselling, medicine, speech therapy, trauma support programs, addiction and mental health programs, parenting education, intimate partner abuse prevention, community connection, in-home crisis intervention, trauma education, and more. These services will help children and families thrive instead of further traumatizing them when they're in an already vulnerable situation.

Prevention services should include post-majority supports. Post-majority supports are supports given to young adults who are entering into the adult world for the first time and are therefore vulnerable and need extra support. If there are adequate post-majority supports, this will help young adults establish happy and sucessfull lives, which will help them create better lives for their children and break cycles of generational poverty and trauma. Post-majority supports need to be evidence-based, culturally appropriate, and needs-based.

In order to provide the services families need, child and family service providers need to have all the funding, resources, and supports they need in order to provide services that help families and keep them together. The government needs to provide this funding, support, and resources so that the human rights of First Nations children and families are met. The funding structure needs to be evidence-informed as well as being community-lead. Funding structures must take into account the specific needs of each community, including needs related to remoteness or specific disadvantages. Funding structures must also respond to the actual and changing needs of children, families, and communities. Service providers also need to be given flexibility as to how to use their funding to meet people's needs. There should be funding set aside for if there is more than expected use of child and family services.

The funding given to First Nations communities and service providers in order to keep kids in their families cannot decrease over time. There must be adequate legal and policy protections in place that make it so that funding for prevention services does not decrease but rather rises to meet changing community needs. There needs to be adjustments to funding that adequately meet the changing needs due to regional and national inflation levels, due to changing populations, and due to changing needs.

There must also be funding for things such as emergency funds, extentuating circumstance funds, maintenance costs, technology, and information gathering. There needs to be adequate money to pay for people to represent their communities to the government. Funding must exist to help with the planning processes that go into creating new services or expanding and improving services. And there needs to be money for insurance, technical experts who provide advice and guidance, buildings, and all other costs related to delivering prevention services that help children and families meet their actual needs.

Funding must be guaranteed. It should not be dependent on political factors, and adequate and comprehensive funding must be guaranteed no matter what party is in power. As well, no matter how exactly a community is delivering child and family services, whether they are doing it themselves or relying on an agency or something else, they should be guaranteed to have the adequate and comprehensive funding they need. We don't know yet exactly how much funding will be needed for reformed child and family services, but the government must pay the money necessary no matter how much it is. The funding should be put into the Special Purpose Allotment so that it can't be used for anything else. The government should not be allowed to use any laws to try to justify underfunding prevention services or other necessary services to First Nations.

There also needs to be adequate funding for First Nations self-advocacy. There needs to be adequate funding of band representation services, which help people engage with child welfare cases. There needs to be adequate funding of this service both on and off reserves. Also, Canada should adequately fund national and regional groups lead by First Nations youth that help the youth advocate on issues that affect them.

The future of child and family services needs to be evidence-informed. This means that there needs to be regular information gathering on how services are affecting children and families, what the needs of children and families are, and how services could be improved. There should be a funding review every five years by independent, non-political public finance experts experienced with First Nations. Indigenous Services Canada or any other governing body, as well as service providers, must provide data for this review within ten days of being asked. This review must be reviewed by First Nations and experts, and approved by all First Nations communities, and the government must implement the recommended changes.

For the sake of information gathering, there should be national and regional secretariats that collect, analyze, and distribute information. They should be independant, apolitical First Nations non profits who are appointed by the National Advisory Committee. They should be funded by the federal government and receive all the funding that they ask for.

There must also be a Program Assessment, which assess the progress that is being made towards reaching equitable and non-discriminatory child and family service provision. This assessment must be public, independant, transparent, inclusive, and accountable. The group that does the Program Assessment must be chosen by First Nations communities themselves, with all communities being able to be represented and to participate in the selection process.

There needs to be an actually effective dispute resolution process for child and family services that finds and stops any future discrimination that could be occurring. The complaints and dispute resolution process must let the court enforce and mandate changes, it must be public and transparent, respect human rights, be efficient and not have delays, offer relief to children and families, be non discriminatory and have adequate ways of stopping and preventing discrimination, have state-funded legal representation and support for First Nations parties, and it must be accountable. A dispute resolution process needs to be able to make orders, including orders for compensation, and it needs to have independent and accountable decision makers who haven't served in a political capacity, have disclosed conflicts of interest, and are experienced in First Nations matters. The dispute resolution process must stop the government from backsliding or not progressing when it comes to First Nations children and families.

The dispute resolution process should also be based on human rights. This includes allowing people to make claims in court under the Canadian Human Rights Act while using the dispute resolution mechanism. It also means that national and international human rights legislation, and the best interests of the child, must be givern precedence above any other law. There should be no retaliation allowed against claimants. The mechanism needs to be able to make systemic changes both small and large, and it also needs to be able to conduct inquiries to find out what changes to make.

An actually good Final Settlement Agreement must be in line with the Truth and Reconciliation Committee's calls to action, in line with the Canadian Human Rights Act, the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, and the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. The best interests of the child should always come first, and the wishes of the child should be given importance. Children, families, and communities need to have power in decisions that affect them.

It will take time for prevention services to be developed. It will also take time for First Nations who want to move towards delivering child and family services themselves to do that. The government needs to support the development of these services and the transition to First Nation-delivered services. The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal needs to be around to make sure that the reformed service delivery to communities is equitable, non-discriminatory, and just. In the current Draft Final Settlement Agreement many communities are being forced to make this transition without preparedness or support.

Small First Nations populations have unique needs. It's not yet well understood how to deliver child and family services to small populations in a way that is equitable and keeps families together. There needs to be independant and expert community-lead research into what is needed in small communities, and the Canadian Human Rights Trubunal needs to be around to make sure that small communities are getting the services they need in a non-discriminatory and just way.

There are also some reserve communities who have their child and family services delivered by the provinces. These communities also deserve all the same funding, reforms, rights, and protections that other communities get. Additionally, the federal government must make public the agreements and terms they have with provincial governments in cases where provincial governments are providing child and family services. This allows for communities to know what supports they have access to and how to improve service provision. The provincial and federal governments need to coordinate well with each other and with First Nations communities when family services on a reserve are being provided by the province. Different communities will have different needs, and it will take time, money, research, and effort to create truly effective prevention services for communities served by the provinces.

Within three years of an actually good Final Settlement Agreement for child and family service reform being approved, there needs to be an evidence-based plan to fund and build all the buildings and other physical infrastructure that need to be built for adequate prevention service provision. Canada should not delay funding and supporting the building of this infastructure. Urgently-needed things should be built with the necessary urgency.

As well, an actually good Final Settlement Agreement would give children, youth, families, and communities off reserves the same services, funding, protections, and inclusion that on-reserve children get. Off-reserve children, youth, families, and communities should get the same prevention services, the same quality services, and they should have their rights and needs respected just as much as children on reserve. Their voices should be heard and included just as much as people on reserve. And they should be just as included in the negotiations and just as protected by the dispute resolution mechanism.

This is because 76% of children who are investigated by child welfare agencies actually live off reserve. And off-reserve child welfare agencies also do not focus on structural drivers of poverty. Off-reserve child welfare agencies also do not have the structure necessary to help families with what they truly need instead of taking children away. There have been many studies on improving the off-reserve child welfare system, but the reform has been slow. Hopefully, a revised and improved Final Settlement Agreement is what it takes to get the ball rolling on reform off-reserve.

Everything that we talked about on how child and family services should be reformed should be enshrined in law. All the changes that we have stated we need to make, changes that are called for by First Nations communities and experts, should be enshrined into law so that any progress made for children and families does not backslide if different governments come into power.

All the different aspects and elements of a reformed Final Settlement Agreement on child and family service reform need to work together and be implemented together. Because each aspect of reform supports all the other aspects of reform and improves the situation just for First Nations children and families.

Now let's talk about Jordan's Principle.

Jordan River Anderson was a child born in Norway House Cree Nation. He had many medical conditions, and the provincial and federal governments were fighting over who had the responsibility to pay for his care. Because the provincial and federal governments couldn't reach a decision, he ended up having to stay in the hospital and he died there, having lived his whole life in a hospital rather than in his family home.

Jordan's Principle is a law that states that if a First Nations child needs a product or service, they have to be given that, and questions about who should pay for it should be sorted out later. This includes things like health, mental health, education, cultural learning, developmental therapy, mobility devices, accessibility, and more.

Unfortunately, the government has been taking a really reductive and narrow approach when it comes to Jordan's Principle, and not giving all children the services they need. Because of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal's orders, much progress has been made with how Canada is providing Jordan's Principle services, and many children have fortunately received services. However, issues continue to remain.

One of the problems is that Canada has narrowed the definition of who can receive Jordan's Principle services. The Human Rights Tribunal has said that all First Nations children recognized by their communities, as well as all children on reserves, can access Jordan's Principle supports. The government however does not recognize this.

The methods of receiving and processing requests for Jordan's Principle services are ineffective and inefficient. People are calling the national and regional call centres asking for help and they're not being able to reach anyone. As it is today, it takes a long time to process requests and actually deliver the necessary services to the children. This means that children go a long time without receiving the support they need. This is also true for children who urgently need support right now, due to a medical or psychological emergency or other circumstances.

Jordan's Principle requests need to be fulfilled in a timely manner. One of the necessary steps to do this is to automate the intake process, since currently an unknown number of cases are not opened and categorized in a timely manner. Another step is by having the call centres be adequately staffed, and letting families indicate if their requests are urgent. Call centres need to be accessible to everyone who needs them. And urgent requests, such as those involving the death of a biological family member or non-related caregiver, threat of imminent physical harm, or an emergency in the community, should be given priority and fulfilled within twelve hours. It needs to be easy to indicate if your request is urgent and there should be enough employees to deal with urgent requests. Requests under $500 should be automatically granted since it takes more than $500 to process a request.

Another inefficiency is the fact that Indigenous Services Canada is taking too long to reimburse service providers who are delivering services to children under Jordan's Principle. This is even leading some service providers to not being able to provide the necessary services anymore. Canada should reimburse all service providers within 15 days and all families within 5 days. The debt that any families or service providers went into when delivering children their needs should also be paid off by the government.

Many requests are being denied which should not be denied. Requests that are in the best interests of the child are often denied, and 88% of the requests that are re-reviewed after their initial denial are granted, meaning that the initial granting/denying process is flawed.

There is also insufficient accountability in Jordan's Principle service provision processes, and problems and injustices do not get remedied. There needs to be an independent, credible, and effective Jordan's Principle complaints mechanism that publicly reports Canada's compliance with Jordan's Principle. This mechanism must be able to force the state and service providers to make necessary changes. Accountability mechanisms also need robust measures to stop retaliation against anyone speaking out about problems.

There is a large backlog of Jordan's Principle requests that need to be looked at. As of March 2024, there were about 82 000 backlogged requests. Many of these requests could be urgent and have not been opened. The government must fix this backlog at the utmost speed and ensure that it doesn't happen again. The current "surge" strategy to deal with this backlog isn't sustainable or enough.

Different federal programs related to Jordan's Principle services are not well-coordinated, and if they were well-coordinated then children, youth, and families could get the services they need more efficiently and with less delays and waits.

There are some First Nations organizations that are providing some Jordan's Principle services. These organizations need to be well-funded and well-supported so that they can deliver the services people need.

Jordan's Principle needs to be able to cover other needs as well that it currently does not. One of these needs is prenatal supports, such as vitamins, medicine, etc. These supports help children be born healthy and stay healthy for their lives. Another need is housing. Obviously, children need and deserve safe, sturdy, well-ventilated housing, and Jordan's Principle services should cover this as well.

The government is making excuses for why it's not properly following Jordan's Principle, but the truth is, this is a human rights matter and following Jordan's Principle is a human rights obligation that supercedes other laws.

There are negotiations underway to create a Final Settlement Agreement for Jordan's Principle reform, similar to the one on child and family services reform.

Unfortunately, the negotiations for the Jordan's Principle Final Settlement Agreement face the same problems as the one for child and family services did. The negotiations have been confidential, meaning that the public, including the public of First Nations communities, have not been able to have any kind of a say in making the Final Settlement Agreement. The public of the First Nations communities themselves were not consulted in making this agreement, and not all First Nations communities were able to send representatives even. Therefore there are likely going to be many problems with the Draft Final Settlement Agreement on Jordan's Principle once it comes out.

The good news though, for both child and family services and Jordan's Principle services, is that the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal has to approve the two Final Settlement Agreements before they can be put into action. The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal can and has made orders to Canada to stop its discriminatory conduct. While Canada obviously has not done that, due to the Tribunal it has been making some steps towards progress. The good thing about Tribunal orders is that they don't expire when a new government comes into power, they can only expire if a final settlement agreement gets agreed to by the parties and passed by the Tribunal. Canada evidently still needs the guidance of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal, and will continue to need that guidance until effective reform is enshrined in law that is properly followed. The Tribunal should retain its jurisdiction after accepting and passing Final Settlement Agreements on Jordan's Principle and child and family services reform, to make sure the reforms are actually carried out in the proper way in the real world.

Education is also something vital and lifechanging, which is underfunded on reserves. A good quality education is a basic human need and human right that every human needs and deserves access to. It helps people use their cognitive functions and develop their ability to be lifelong learners. It is an important tool for learning about the world and considering different perspectives and experiences. It is an important place for learning social skills and making friends. The list of important things education teaches us all is endless. Good quality education is vital for the wellbeing of a child and their healthy development into an adult.

Education also changes entire communities. With education, people can pursue their dreams and become the things they want to be. If children can grow up and pursue the careers they want, then there will be a lot of skilled and educated people in the community. This will increase the economic prosperity of the whole community and the economic opportunities the entire community has, as well as empowering the community to solve its other problems.

School can also be a place where people can learn about their own culture, their own language, their own religion, and their people's history. School can be a place where First Nations children are supported in being proud of who they are and the communities they are a part of.

But in order for education to be of adequate quality, schools need to be well-funded. They need to provide a safe, comfortable learning environment. They need to have enough up to date textbooks, well-stocked libraries in classrooms and in the school, they need computers to teach computer literacy, they need lab equipment and sports equipment and stationaries. They need space and infrastructure for playgrounds, gyms, labs. They need adequate heating, cooling, and ventilation. They need good quality washrooms and water fountains. They need enough teachers, and education assistants for students with special needs. They need money for field trips. The list goes on.

But schools on reserves don't have the funding to pay for all of the things they need. Therefore, children on reserves don't get the good quality education they need. And they don't have as good quality education as children off reserves do. This is incredibly unequal, unfair, and unjust, and it violates the inherent rights of children on reserves. Therefore, the government must fund schools on reserve as much as schools for non-Indigenous children are funded.

Services on reserves in general are funded less than services off reserve. This includes housing, income support, medical and mental healthcare, job training, childcare, and the list goes on. There is more poverty and greater need on reserves, because of the racism, colonialism, generational trauma, and lack of job opportunities. And yet there are less services on reserves and those services are worse quality. This is why we must adopt the Spirit Bear Plan.

"Spirit Bear calls on:

CANADA to immediately comply with all rulings by the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal ordering it to immediately cease its discriminatory funding of First Nations child and family services. The order further requires Canada to fully and properly implement Jordan's Principle

PARLIAMENT to ask the Parliamentary Budget Officer to publicly cost out the shortfalls in all federally funded public services provided to First Nations children, youth and families (education, health, water, child welfare, etc.) and propose solutions to fix it.

GOVERNMENT to consult with First Nations to co-create a holistic Spirit Bear Plan to end all of the inequalities (with dates and confirmed investments) in a short period of time sensitive to children's best interests, development and distinct community needs.

GOVERNMENT DEPARTMENTS providing services to First Nations children and families to undergo a thorough and independent 360° evaluation to identify any ongoing discriminatory ideologies, policies or practices and address them. These evaluation must be publicly available.

ALL PUBLIC SERVANTS including those at a senior level, to receive mandatory training to identify and address government ideology, policies and practices that fetter the implementation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission's Calls to Action."

Some specific examples of how needs within First Nations reserves are being unmet is the housing situation, the clean water situation, and the disaster recovery situation. A lot of housing on reserves is unsafe, mouldy, under insulated, and doesn't have the utilities that houses need. There are also not enough houses for everyone. Instead of helping communities build better houses, and enough houses for everyone, the government is not doing enough to solve this issue. As well, 618 First Nations communities do not have clean water. They have to buy water instead of having access to it in their house. And this is more than many people can afford. And there is also not enough for natural disaster relief. The climate crisis is causing reserves (as well as many other communities) to face natural disasters such as forest fires and floods. The government is not doing enough to help on reserve communities rebuild after these traumatic and destructive events.

Children can only be healthy if their communities are healthy. Children are tied to and connected with their communities and community members. What is good for the whole community also leads to children having better lives and better childhoods. Healthy and thriving communities can raise healthy and thriving children. And of course, children grow up into community members.

Indigenous Services Canada is claiming that they'll make programs to help the community with their needs, but they're not giving any information about those programs. As well, they are taking far too long to implement these programs, leaving people to suffer. These claims are therefore not trustworthy and it is unlikely that Indigenous Services Canada is developing programs that will actually be effective at meeting community needs.

Indigenous Services Canada, which runs the service provision of all services on reserves, is blatantly inadequate at their job. They are and have always been a colonial institution. They need to be phased out and replaced with an Indigenous Treasury Board that will be run by Indigenous people and will ensure communities and service providers are getting the funding and support they need. For example, the Indigenous Treasury Board and First Nations organizations should be the ones delivering funding from the federal government to child and family services, as this will help communities and service providers have an organization that truly fights for them and their needs to the government.

There are many problems with the current government department. They do not provide adequate and efficient services for people, as well as not being interested in non-discrimination and justice. For example, Indigenous Services Canada develops and implements its own training on cultural sensitivity and other issues. This of course isn't accountable. As well, Indigenous Services Canada isn't self-reporting the problems that happen in their organization, because why would they?

Despite the problems with Indigenous Services Canada, there is an attempt to reform the department. There are ways to make this reform more effective. First of all, the committee that is making a plan to prevent recurrence of discrimination in Indigenous Services Canada should report directly to Chiefs in Assembly and the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal. The department should be reformed according to the rulings of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal. The committee planning to reform Indigenous Services Canada must be well-funded, remain non-political, and their recommendations must be followed.

Children are the most important people in First Nations cultures. They are also the most important people in general, for obvious reasons. It is incredibly important that the rights and wellbeing of children, their families, and their communities are given utmost importance. We have an opportunity now to improve the system for First Nations children. Public pressure has been the biggest factor in causing the government to act thus far. And we will continue the pressure until we achieve real change for children.

Please fulfill your obligations towards First Nations children both on and off reserves by creating actually good Final Settlement Agreements on Jordan's Principle and child and family service reform, properly delivering Jordan's Principle services, properly funding education, and properly funding all services on reserves. Also replace or at least reform Indigenous Services Canada. Thank you for reading our letter and please take our concerns to heart and act upon theme.

Sincerely,

———

Here are the people you should send your letter to:

-Prime Minister Trudeau:

-Minister of Crown-Indigenous Relations Gary Anandasangare

-Minister of Indigenous Services Patty Hajdu

-Your own Member of Parliament