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The Land of Perpetual Misery
I look down at these lands with my all-seeing eyes. This town had once been my home, before I died. Before I found peace. Before I saved my town, if only for a handful of years. Before I poisoned myself and the one who most wronged me. Before I went though unimaginable pain. Before my life and my freedom and my personhood were ripped from me. Before all of that I was a poor farmer. This place had once been the place where I worked and worried and fell asleep in the arms of my mother. This place had once been somewhere I could love. This place had always been a place of unimaginable misery though. And now it was no different.
The moon glows pale through my skin, casting only half a shadow. I float soundlessly though the narrow, decrepid dirt streets. They hadn't changed much since I was a young girl toiling on the farm. If anything they'd gotten worse. Much worse.
I stop before a ramshackle hut, made of walls too thin to keep out the cold or the heat and a roof too full of holes to keep out the rain. Many of the houses are like this. I hear the familiar sounds of a woman in labour, of a midwife and neighbours encouraging her on. I look in, ready to bless the mother and her new child with my protection.
The mother is beautiful. She has dark hair and warm skin and angular features. Her name is Maia. Her mother is not here. Her mother lives in a distant town. The girl came here looking for work when she was sixteen and she also found love. She did not however find a way out of the crippling poverty that enveloped so many. Her child takes after her. She is a little baby girl with deep brown eyes and ebony black hair. I can already tell she'll grow up to be the type of girl men write books and poetry about. The type of girl I was.
This is not even remotely a good thing.
I add her to the list of the infinite people who I keep my eye on.
It used to be that I looked after the town. But now I look after whoever needs me to look after them, wherever they're from. There is misery in all the corners of the Earth.
They name her Mikali. I give her my protection.
She grows up dirt poor. She knows intimately what hunger feels like. She knows how the weather can rip at you while you have no protection. She knows what it's like to have to make a bucket of water stretch the whole day between ten people. She know what it feels like to be sick with no hope of medicine. She knows what it feels like to toil in a factory until your arms and legs and mind and heart are nothing but constant screaming. She knows what it feels like to watch neighbours and friends die.
She knows what it feels like to love. She's the oldest daughter of the block, all the other children being younger than her. She has her baby sister, Violia, her even younger sister Kiani, her neighbour's sons Tomnio and Julio and Ehano and Jaziko. She has her other neighbour's children Tami and Lina and Bei and Alissi. She has the children who live across the alley from her, Dialo, Amali, Laia, Aveno, Biko, Tiena, Aria, Joan and Amir. She has her cousins Bailia and Sienna. And she has an unending love and protectiveness for her people and her land.
All the children do. Every single one of them. They are all born into misery and toil, into dehumanization and danger. They are all as strong as they can be. They take care of each other however they can. They are a new generation of young gods, crushed under the heel of oppression just as I was. They have my blessing. Every single one of them.
I watch over them. I look after them. They are children of my town. They are children of my world. They are my children.
Tragedy follows poverty like a shadow because they are two parts of the same whole. When Mika is ten a plague sweeps through. It kills her parents. And the parents of her next-door neighbours. She barely has time to let her grief flow through and out of her. She has to take on extra shifts at the factory, and hold on her pain until it grows and grows into something that tears her apart from the inside. But she has no choice. She has to provide for her family. She has to keep them alive. Even if it kills her. She once again reminds me of myself. They all do.
Time goes past and soon enough Mika is fourteen. She blooms into an extraordinarily beautiful fourteen-year-old girl, face full of angles and eyes darker than the night and larger than the moon. She doesn't look a bit like me. I have a round face and thick curls. But we both hold the same beauty. I fear for her. But I know I would've always feared for her. No matter what. She was born into the shadow of death as it was. That's what poverty is.
My fears prove to be well-founded. One day she is out buying groceries. A shiny black limousine is driving by, its shaded windows drawn closed against the smells of the slums. It bears the unmistakable polish of the bourgeoisie who rule from the fine mansions of the garden district. Everyone turns and stares at it in fear.
A young man in a fine silk suit and coiffed brown hair steps out. He holds himself like a king. He practically is one. He has no business to be in a place like this.
Everyone waits to hear what he had to say.
He asks if a Miss Mikali Sarin is here. She steps forwards, expression carefully blanked. I follow them, keeping invisible. I follow the anxious murmur of the crowd as well. They all know Mika fondly. They all worry for her. When I was alive my community was like this as well. When I died they grieved me but they were relieved that I was finally free. Will it go the same way this time around as well?
Meanwhile in the car he tells her that he will pay for her loved ones' expenses, he will take care of them. But only if she comes to live with him. It's not a choice. Not really. Let your loved ones suffer and die or do as I say. That is not a choice. It just isn't.
She doesn't even get to say goodbye as she is whisked far away from her home, from her people, from all the people who see her as a person.
It's far too familiar. She is not able to cry. I was not able to cry when it was my time. So I cry for her as I float alongside the car.
She gets to see her family once every few months. It is not nearly enough. But it's all she has. For the vast majority of the time, she smiles and laughs and lies and hides and plays pretend that she's the perfect doll for him.
I know that it's eating her up inside. It eventually ended up killing me after all.
I fucking died.
She bites her tongue as they eat pastries and cakes, while she knows that most people can barely scrape by on beans and rice if even that. She bites her tongue when they do renovations to add another level onto their already huge house, while she knows people who died living on the streets. She bites her tongue as she's forced into silk dress after silk dress after silk dress while she remembers the children who don't have winter coats or shoes. She acts loyal and loving and reverent.
And she lets him do whatever he wants to her.
She owes him after all, is what he says.
It's something I've heard before. It's something that's never said with sincerity. Even if he believes his own lies. It doesn't change the fact that they're lies. There is no benevolent capitalist any more than there is a benevolent king or a benevolent empire or a benevolent master. They're all the same thing after all.
I follow her still. Give her the bits of strength and protection I can. Being a god doesn't mean you have ultimate power. I desperately wish I could do more.
One day I follow her to the bridge. She leans down. Gazes intently at the water below. It's icy. Rushing. Is she going to kill herself? Can she no longer live like this? I understand. I reach out to give her one last hug. So that she might die feeling loved.
She gasps and turns around. Her face is full of surprise yet she looks calmer than she has in a while. And the calm is genuine. After a bit of searching her eyes land on me.
"I ... are ... are you a god?" Her eyes are wide and reverent and more than a bit startled.
"I am. Do you know about Mihu the farmer's daughter? That's me." I keep my voice as soft as I can to calm her down.
I did not think it possible but her eyes go even wider.
"I'm sorry my Lady. It's an honour. Beyond an honour. To meet you. I'm ... sorry. My Lady." She quickly moves to kneel down, as she speaks these words, despite the dirty ground beneath us, her face one of pure reverence. As she starts bowing her head, I catch her face in my hands and gently pull her up.
"No, my child. Don't kneel. You do not need to kneel in my presence."
"But ... my Lady ... really?"
"Yes really. Stand. Let us talk eye-to-eye."
"My Lady." She still bows her head before I lift her chin up. "What can I do for you?"
"It's more about what I can do for you, my child. I've been with you since you were but a baby cradled in your mother's arms. I have seen your life. And I cannot help but weep."
Her face goes carefully blank at that.
"My Lady I have wronged you. I'm sorry. How can I ever make it up?" she says solemnly, before moving a hand to cover her mouth.
"No. No you haven't wronged me. Not at all. You've been wronged. You've been wronged just as I have been. Just as your friends and family have been and just as oppressed people across all of time and space have been. We have all been wronged by inequality and hierarchy. And the way you have been wronged specifically reminds me so much of how I've been wronged."
"My Lady. I am not worthy to compare myself to you."
"None of that," I cut her off, "you are my cherished one. As are all your siblings, both biological and adopted. As are all those in the slums of this town. As are the oppressed people the world over. You have no need to doubt yourself."
I hold her softly, gently by the shoulders. And I look at her. Her eyes are filled with so much grief. So much repression. I know very intimately what it feels like to have eyes like that. I cry. She reaches out to gingerly brush her fingers over my face. When she pulls them back they are stained red.
"I'm so sorry for all that you've gone though," I sob quietly. Her resolve breaks. She starts crying too. Tear after tear after tear flowing down her face. I take her into my arms and she hugs me tight back. We stay like this for a while. Holding each other. Crying into each other's shoulders. Crying for ourselves. For each other. For the world. Finally, as the sun is painting the sky orange, she pulls back.
"Are you still afraid, child?" I ask, holding her shoulder softly and stroking her cheek in the way that her mother used to do.
"No, my Lady. But it's still ... it's still an honour."
"It's an honour for me as well. Now tell me, do you remember my story?"
"Yes. Everyone does. My mother told us the version of the story that was passed down in her hometown. The authorities do not allow people to speak of gods and spirits there. They say it's mere superstition and foolishness. But the people still tell each other. They still pass it down. Not just your story. Countless others." I nod. This is information I already know but she needs to talk about her mother. The thought warms her.
"And my aunts. They told us of your story too. And the stories of the other gods and spirits and heroes. Their tales were, well they were much the same. But they were always insistent that you all were still fighting on our side. That you hated the system still and you were fighting for the workers however you could. See, though I think you know, the authorities here never deny the existence of the spirits. But they declare that after your deification, you all moved to create the modern world. They claim that you created the modern world in the way that was to your liking. That you approve of the status quo. My aunts always vehemently denied that. They said that gods could not meddle too much with the affairs of the humans but they could give us the strength and inspiration to change the world ourselves, when the time comes. They said that there is no way the gods could be alright with this hierarchical mess of a society." I notice that she is speaking her mind much more freely now, yet all the reverence in her tone remains. If anything it is stronger, as she thinks about her mother and her aunts and the family she left behind.
"They were right," I say softly yet strongly. "They were all right. They were all very wise to share the stories with you. Your mother was taught that the gods were not real. But she was right to follow her heart and keep believing. She was right to tell you we were real. Your aunts were taught that the gods were on the side of their oppressors. But they were right to have faith in themselves. They were right to teach you that the gods are on the side of the have-nots."
"Thank you. I ... I spent so long among the bourgeoisie, nodding along at their entitledness and attending their church services and being told I was nothing that ... that I was beginning to forget."
"That's understandable. You need not feel ashamed of that. I'm on the side of the poor. Of the powerless. I always have been. I always will be. So is every other divine being. But let me tell you something else."
"Yes my Lady?"
I smile at her, cupping her cheeks in my hands.
"What you must realize is that you are part of our story. That you all are part of our story. The story of the gods, of the world, is about people surviving through and struggling against oppression. It is the story of people fighting for equality. It's the story of those who have been stripped of their rights and dehumanized. You can probably easily see how my story parallels your own, no?"
"Yes my Lady." We exchange sad, knowing looks.
"Yes. But I also see myself in all the factory workers and the farmers and the unemployed people. They have all been stripped of their humanity and their power, forced to work, and suffer, and miss their loved ones, and be who they don't want to be. I'm sure Amina from the mining town or Imiko the orphan or Ala the child would see themselves so easily in all the people who are held down by the system. In all the people who have to either kill themselves working or starve, who have to grieve loved one after loved one, who have to smile and pretend everything is okay. Haynen the thief and Amia the teenaged girl would relate to the resourcefulness of the poor and the way you bend or even outright break rules to keep each other safe. I sure relate. I poisoned my abuser. Amia gave me a high five for that, once I reached the Otherworld. Your stories mirror our stories and our stories mirror yours. The fight is for universal equality and liberation. Not to trade old masters for new ones."
"So what do I do?" Her voice has more hope in it than I've heard from her in a long while.
"You tell people what I told you. That you met me. You talked to me. That the gods are definitely on their side. You talk to different gods. And we will tell you how we see ourselves in the people. How the people should see themselves in us. How we are supporting and encouraging them to find liberation. They already know this. Of course they already know this. It's undeniable. But hearing it from the mouth of a prophet will give them so much strength, so much power. Because now, who are the elites to say that the gods are on their side? Their argument holds no strength at all. Not against the word of a prophet. Do you understand?"
"I do. They will no longer be able to deny it, the bourgeoisie, that the gods are on our side."
"Yes. And are you willing?"
"Of course I am. I'll teach your truths, and the truths of the other gods. And all of us together, the gods and the workers and everyone who's downtrodden. We'll create a new future. A good future. Free of wealth inequality and power hierarchies. Where we take care of and love each other and the Land and the Water, where we are truly free and truly together."
She looks so full of life and hope and energy in the orange light of the sunset. She almost seems to glow with it. Of course the sadness is still there. It will always be there. But she has hope now. And that's a victory.
"Yes my daughter. Now dry your tears and don't let him see your pain. We'll talk more tonight."
"Yes my Lady."
We hug one last time. I bring my fingers through her hair and kiss her cheek. And then she bows and walks off into the blazing sunset.
The End of the World
One day there was a Town that was created by the Giver, the source of all goodness in the world. The people of the Town were happy in the Town. They smiled as they greeted each other in the streets. They shared their food, their work, and their time. The women wore pretty pastel-coloured dresses. The men wore handsome creamy white shirts. The children all had curly hair. The houses were all painted bright colours. The food was sweet, the air was fresh, and the sun shone brightly. But they knew that all this must soon come to an end. There was a vase full of Evils, hidden away in the cellar of the Town Hall, locked in a box that was locked in another box that was locked in another box. Soon the Taker would rise. The Taker was foretold by prophecy. The Taker would break the seal of the vase, releasing the Evils out into the Town. The Evils would cause havoc and wreckage, and they would kill everyone before descending into the World Beneath the Horizon. The Taker would then descend into the World Beneath the Horizon. There they would rule as the Kingfather. This was tragic, as it was. But it was foretold by prophecy so thus it would be.
One day a baby was found in a blue box on the train tracks. Everyone knew that this baby was the Taker, just as prophecy had foretold. Some people suggested leaving the baby Taker on the train tracks so that a train might run over them and the Town would be safe. But the majority of the Townspeople knew that they couldn't leave the baby on the train tracks. The prophecy was very clear on what was to be the fate of the Town. The Townspeople took the baby Kingfather off the tracks and into the Town to be raised there. They knew they were a creature of unholiness and corruption. But they had to follow the prophecy.
Alas the baby was raised inside the town by the Townspeople. The baby was fed, but with milk made from chalk dust not milk from the cow. For the milk from a living being was said to help one form connection with the living world. And if the baby had connection with the living world they would not be able to destroy it. As the baby grew they were passed from family to family, spending a week with each family. This was so that the child could not form any close family bonds. Because if the child learned to love, they would not fulfill their prophecy. The child was sent to school to be taught in the ways of the world. But they were not allowed to play with the other children. Because if they made friends they might feel love for the Town. The child had straight hair. The child was fed, but not with food that came from living beings. Their food was made of dust and rocks. The child was clothed, but not in soft, warm clothes like the Townspeople. They were made to wear the bags made of plastic that were normally used to store garbage in. The child was given a bed to sleep in but their blankets were made of plastic sheets, not hand-sewn quilts. When the child's host family would gather around the dinner table and laugh and talk as they shared their meal, the child would have to eat alone locked in their room. When the Town had festivals the child was not allowed to attend, but rather locked in the cellar of the Town Hall.
The child spent a week straight locked inside the cellar of the Town Hall each year as the winter solstice was celebrated. It was dark. It was cold. It was small. It was suffocating.
The child knew their destiny. The child knew that one day they would be expected to kill the citizens of the Town and then descend back into the depths where they came from. It was something that was always taught to them. It was taught to them that they were a form of destruction, they were meant to be a form of destruction. It was taught to them that they were only capable of cruelty. It was taught to them that they should look forwards to ruling the World Beneath the Horizon. That it was where creatures like them lived and where they would be accepted.
And so the child grew. The child knew that they did not have the capacity to love, but they felt grateful that the Townspeople loved them enough to care for them and raise them anyways. The child was terrified of ever reaching their fifteenth birthday, which would be the date where they would be compelled to destroy all creation. The child did not want that day to ever come.
The child did continue growing. And soon they were a teenager. Soon they turned fourteen. And then the day of their fifteenth birthday was a mere day away. And then, it arrived.
The teenager felt a feeling of fear they had never felt before as they were led to the stage at the centre of town hall. On the stage there was a podium with a vase on it that was covered in thick, waxy cloth. Beside the vase there was a knife. There was a crowd gathered all around the stage. The whole Town had come for the devastating event. There were families with children. There were lovers holding hands. There were friends whispering to each other. The teenager looked out into the crowd and saw it all. Saw all the love they knew they could never understand.
The Mayor of the Town was standing beside them. He told them to go on. They looked at the Mayor with big, wide eyes. And they shook their head. The Mayor was angry. He demanded to know what they meant. They clasped their hands in front of their chest, pleading. Then they waved a hand over the crowd, so as to gesture towards all the people there. They clasped their hands together again. And gestured back towards the crowd. They brought their hands up to form the shape of a heart with their curved fingers and thumbs. The Mayor was enraged at the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old standing before him. He told them that if they didn't break the seal on their own then he would take their hands in his and make them break the seal.
The teenager stared up, terrified. They held their hands up, placating, in surrender. They looked at the Mayor. They looked at the crowd. They looked at the knife. And they made a decision. The Taker took the knife in their hands. The Taker aimed the knife towards the vase. And then at the last moment they changed direction and drove the knife instead into their own neck.
The crowd gasped as the small body fell upon the rapidly-growing pool of blood on the wooden floor.
Sunday
Milahi Imiko finished sweeping and polishing the floor of the cafe, finally. The place was so large and the rose gold marble floors had to be kept pristine at all times. That meant it had to be swept and polished many times while the Lords and Ladies were here. It also meant that it had to be swept down and polished before closing. It was a thankless job. Especially during the day when she would get harassment from the patrons. She sighed. She locked the door and made her way down the streets lit with cold gray street lamps. This was one of the poshest districts of the town, with the offices of the Lords stretching up into the sky and bridges arcing and curving everywhere. She hated it.
She reached the bus stop, and stopped beside it. She stood in the brisk air, still in her low-cut satin uniform of pastel blue. It was cold. She was bone tired in every single fibre of her being. She made no sound. When the bus pulled up, she smiled warmly and sadly at the driver, a man of about thirty years old with soft eyes and a caring expression. She said hello, thanked him for driving her home, and after a bit of conversation she silently stood near the back of the bus. On the outside the bus was really rather beautiful, in order to blend seamlessly into the district. But on the inside it was crowded, dirty, and devoid of seats.
She smiled at the people around her. They smiled at her back. It was almost twelve and even at this ungodly hour so many were going home. They were tired like her. Conversation susurrated around her, low enough that the cameras didn't pick it up. Low enough to provide the illusion of meekness.
The bus made its way through the large, vast expanse of the Lords district. After a while it reached the edges of the district, where the commoners' neighbourhoods were. Spread out around the edges of the city there were small neighbourhoods that the few thousand regular people lived in. The neighbourhoods only had a few dozen huts in them, and each neighbourhood was far from the others. This way, it was near impossible for the different neighbourhoods to organize in a coordinated, unified way. Soon the bus stopped near Milahi's neighbourhood and she stepped down, bidding the driver goodnight and good luck and see you later. She took in the run-down concrete single-room huts around her. Most of them were in various states of disrepair. It was home. And she loved it. And she hated it.
She glided down the streets as mute as a ghost until she stepped into the doorway of her hut. Inside, her three children were already asleep, curled against each other on the floor. Her wife had already tucked them in it seemed. She let her eyes hold onto them for a moment before she did what she had to do. She walked over to the shrine in the corner of the room, over the hearth. She bowed her head before the coloured photograph of the Lord of Lords, under his hard, angry piercing eyes. She clasped her hands into prayer so that the video camera nestled inside the plastic flowers draped around the frame would see her as the devoted servant she wasn't.
"Thank you, Lord of Lords, Great Alexandre Dumonte, for the gift of life that you bestow upon us. In return may I devote my life in service to you and your eternal glory." She finished her prayer and slipped herself out of her work clothes and into the rags that she wore at home. She thought about how much she hated Dumonte. He was a man, just a man. He was born. He could die. He hadn't yet. He had an incredible amount of wealth. An incredible amount of power. In their town he asserted himself as a god. But he was not a god. Not at all. Thankfully tomorrow was Sunday.
She lay down beside her second youngest, Aliya. The child cuddled into her mother in her sleep. It was so cute. Milahi reached a hand over to rest it on her youngest daughter's arm. Kiana was a mere toddler. Two years old and too young for this cruel world. In the silence of her heart Milahi whispered a prayer to the real gods. Please keep my baby safe and help her grow into a kind, selfless woman who has confidence in herself and love for her people, who is brave in standing up for what's right and empathetic in her treatment of others. She moved her hand to brush against the hair of her oldest daughter, Safia. At seven she carried herself like she was much older but Milahi knew that underneath the repression that came with being forced to grow up too fast, the child was young and vulnerable and needed love. Milahi spoke a prayer for her, in the silence of her heart. Please let Safia grow up strong and free. May she be humble and loving in how she serves her fellow peasants and may she be bold and freethinking in how she defies the Lords. May she never loose sight of her hope. Finally she brushed the hair of her middle daughter, Aliyah. The five year old was too outspoken and it worried her. Please may Aliyah stay safe in her life. But may she never loose her spark, her rebelliousness, her passion. May she never lose the belief that she can make things better. May she find freedom, community, and love. She blanketed her arm over all of them.
Before going to sleep she sent a prayer on behalf of their birth parents. She didn't know where they were. But she hoped that they were doing alright. She remembered, back when she worked as a servant in the Lords district, her friends from other houses would come with tears in their eyes and no desire to raise their abusers' babies, and no access to ways of terminating those pregnancies, and no desire to see their babies harmed. She understood what it was like to feel unwanted hands all over your body and have no way to get them off without losing your job. She understood what it was like to grow up unwanted. Her wife Mishi back at home promised to raise the children as best as she could, to love them as much as it was possible to love someone. She was so grateful to Mishi. And to her community for coming together to support the kids. Her and Mishi had made a promise to those two teenaged girls and one boy. That they would raise their children to be happy, and healthy, and strong, and kind and loved and confident and thoughtful. As much as was possible in this impossible world.
She intended to follow through.
———
When Milahi awoke the sun's rays were already brightly shining through the open window.
"Mama!" Kiana exclaimed, running to Milahi and falling on top of her in a haphazard sort of hug.
"Mama is awake! Yay! Mama I missed you!" Aliya joined the hug. Milahi revelled for a moment in the pure happiness that came with holding her children close.
"Safia, you're not too old for hugs. Get over here!" Safia smiled warmly, before walking to join them. Milahi gave her a kiss on the forehead.
"You're still my baby."
"I know."
"You all are."
Milahi quickly ate her share of breakfast, the heapings of bread that wasn't really stale yet and fruits that weren't really brown yet that always gave Sundays a rich feeling. Before she had a chance to dry her bowl, she felt Kiana tugging on the hem of her shirt.
"Mama. You. We will go. To the -"
"Yes Kiki!" Safia cut in "We will! And it will be fun!"
Milahi hated that children too young to tie their shoelaces had to watch their mouths in their own house.
"Mommy said we'll be out all day! With Cassa and Tom and Luki and all our friends!" Aliya exlaimed loudly.
"Welll it's a Sunday after all, isn't it?"
"Sunnay. Kiki. Love. Sunnay!" She smiled brightly.
"Aww I love that you love it. I love that you're happy."
"I like Sunday too. It's so boring all week with you and Mommy and all the aunts and uncles at work." Safia patted my cheek.
"I only like Sunday. Just Sunday. All the other days are bad," Aliya huffed.
"Aliya you can say this later -" Safia was ever the pragmatist.
"No! You always say that. I don't like days and I don't like you saying Aliya be quiet be quiet!"
"I say it to keep you safe Ali!"
"I'm still mad!"
"It's not my fault!"
"Children, children. Let's go outside!" Milahi carried Kiana as the other two children trailed behind her. The summer morning was thankfully warm.
"My babies," Milahi said once they got a safe distance from the camera, "you both love each other. Aliya, Safia is sad that you can't say what you want. She wants you to be able to say what you want. She wants you to be free. But if the bad guys hear you they'll hurt you. She doesn't want that to happen. Safia, Aliya isn't mad at you. She loves you. She's mad that she has to keep her thoughts to herself sometimes and can't be truthful. She just had a hard time expressing that. She's small."
"I'm sorry Ali."
"It's okay. Me too."
"Should we go check what Mommy is doing?"
"Sure."
"Yeah!"
The young family walked down the narrow streets. They were dirty and uneven as they always were. But they were met with families from all over the community all coming out of their homes and greeting each other and talking. Milahi soaked in the festive atmosphere. Today was Sunday. Today was their day. She greeted and hugged and played with the children of the neighbours. She joked around with her friends. She smiled at the way the sun shone on the dark hair of the women and sparkled in the dark eyelashes of the children.
"Aunt Milahi! Yesterday I lost my tooth!" Little Maion smiled at her.
"Mila. I think Aresh is going to propose soon." Lila whispered.
"Mila you're so reserved these days. What happened to the boisterous little girl I knew?" Uncle Maresh ran a hand through her hair.
"Aunt Milahi my brother hasn't asked his crush out yet." Jilli said exasperatedly.
But of course there was the more heavy parts of the conversation. There always were. There were heavy parts of life.
"Aunt Milahi I miss my dad," Bria sighed.
"Aunt Milahi I will have to move sooo soon. I'll miss you." Akio gripped her hand.
"Mila my wife god laid off. I don't know how we'll keep feeding our kids." Amniko looked worriedly at the sky.
"Mila I hate my job so much. They say oh it's just easy but it's not." Aisha didn't sound frustrated. Just broken.
But soon enough they reached the edge of the fence that parted the neighbourhood from the Forest. The Forest that was forbidden.
The Forest was fenced off with a high chain linked fence topped with barbed wire. It was impossible to access, unless you has no qualms about ripping your arms and legs in barbed wire and falling to your death. That didn't change the fact that sometimes people saw human footsteps in its soft soil. That was a hopeful sign.
There was however a long clearing before the fence, where everyone could sit on the overgrown grass. This was where the whole community got together during the summer Sundays when the weather allowed for it. When there were no cameras.
The hundred or so people that were here today found seats.
Milahi sat alongside her wife Mishi. She had Kiana in her arms and Mishi had Amako in her arms, another toddler that Kiani was good friends with. They laughed and played with each other in the strange way that toddlers do. Around them Aliya, Safia, Aveno, Jillia, and Hakomo talked and played.
"Mihali?" The soft voice of her kind, serious wife asked.
"Yes?"
"Now that they can't hear us, tell me. So you think we'll be free one day?"
"The logical part of me says they have guns and tanks and more power than us. But my heart says that we will. How about you Mishi? What do you think?"
"I think they underestimate us. By a lot. That's the advantage that we have. We can work together. We can coordinate with each other. We have hope and strength and bravery and resilience. The type that comes from having a community. They don't know that. And they never will. That's a pretty huge advantage."
"You're right. Tell everyone this."
"If I get a chance to lol. You know how much Jillia talks everyone's ear off," she joked. They exchanged a laugh.
"Aunt Mishi!" Speak of the devil.
"Yes Jill-Jill?"
"I saw a robin redbreast. Do you think it was Kanamio?"
"I think so girl child."
"K. So like, guys!" Avenoni called the meeting to order, since it was their turn to do so, "should we start with like a story, or with ideas?"
Most of the people shouted that they wanted a story.
"K right so story it is then," the teenager said. "Does like, does anyone have ideas for which one?"
The crowd hummed with life. Safia, Aveno and Aliya had wandered off at this point but Jill-Jill and Hakomo sat leaning on their aunts. Well they weren't really related. But everyone was family in this neighbourhood, and among different neighbourhoods too.
"Saipel! Saipel! Saipel!" Kiana chanted.
"Yeah!" Aveno chimed in, "an the wadel."
"So you guys want the story of the spider and the water?" Jill-Jill asked.
"Yeah!" Amako cheered.
"I'll ask. We'll see if it gets voted for."
On Sundays life was almost worth living. Her heart was almost almost cleansed of the worst of her grief.
A Lady on the Bus
So this is not a work of fiction. It's the true life story of a person I met and the experience I had with her. I'm sharing this so that you can keep this lady in your prayers, as she is struggling. She is a beautiful, amazing soul. But she needs the protection of whatever divinity is out there.
So I was on the bus today, going home from school. As I got on the bus, I noticed a lady who looked like she was sleeping on her seat. No big deal, people get cozy on the bus sometimes, they even close their eyes sometimes, it doesn't necessarily mean they're actually asleep. So I just stand near the back which is where people go if all the seats are occupied.
But eventually the bus stops at a bus stop and I notice a police car stopped in front of us. The driver gets out of the bus and talks to the police. Then a police officer comes and he starts talking to the lady who was resting. Now, I have been the victim of police brutality before. I know wha it's like. This woman is visibly BIPOC, and she looks to be either Latina or Indigenous. She looks poor. She could be having a mental health crisis. I know what police do to people like her. I'm not about to let her get murdered or beaten up or something. So I start filming. I don't say anything, I just take out my phone and start filming.
I know we're on a bus and beside a busy road, so if there is any maltreatment, people will see. But I also know that there are many cases where people got killed on or by a busy road. I've watched a video of a mentally ill man getting gunned down by the police even though he was just standing with his hands up, and this happened right by a busy road full of cars. If anything happens, having video evidence of it will back up and lend credibility to eyewitness accounts. If anything happens, having video evidence of it will make more people believe the truth.
So I film, from a few meters away. The police officer asks her if she has a ticket for the bus. She says no. He demands that she get out of the bus. She refuses at first. But he threatens to take her out by force. Now I will mention that she looks extremely tired and groggy and she doesn't seem to be thinking rationally. The police officer threatens to arrest her, so she gets off the bus. The cop follows her, and I follow the cop, still filming. Outside, the cop threatens to arrest the girl, and asks for her information. He notices me filming and asks if he can help me. I say no, and that I'm just making sure.
The lady seems completely delirious. She can only answer yes or no, and her voice sounds incredibly distressed and emotional. The police officer eventually gets into his car and drives away. And I stop filming but I stay with the lady. She's sitting on a bench and I sit beside her. I ask her if she has any friends or family she can go to. She can't answer my questions in full sentences and just says no in a very panicked voice. I ask her if she wants to go to a homeless shelter, and she says no. I have to talk to her and repeat the same question four or five times to get an answer. The police officer had previously had to ask the same question many times to get an answer as well.
I know I can't leave her like this. She's completely out of it and if she's outside by herself by the time night rolls around, then she might get kidnapped. I've seen too many missing posters around my city, and read too many articles about the MMIGW2S crisis. Not to mention, she doesn't have any warm clothes, she only has a cotton t shirt and slacks, and the nights are very cold where I live. She could straight up die of pneumonia or something if she doesn't find shelter before the night. So I decide to call a homeless shelter anyways and explain my situation. They tell me to call a number and there will be a crisis response team who will come.
So the crisis response team is not part of the police. They don't have weapons. They're social workers who use deescalation tactics and stuff.
So I call the number for the crisis response team. And at this point she's lying down on the bench at the bus stand and I'm sitting on the ground next to her. Which is okay, since she's really tired and I'm not. I get put on hold on the phone, and I stay put on hold for like half an hour. So I'm just sitting here, keeping an eye on the lady, waiting to be connected on the phone to someone I can talk to. And it's pretty tense, but thank the gods the weather is good.
Eventually the call does get through. The lady on the other side of the phone line asks what happened and where I am. So I explain my situation to her. She says she'll send a crisis response team, but they'll take at least half an hour to get there. So that's okay I guess. So I stay with the distressed lady. I don't try to talk to her. I just let her rest. The gods know that she needs her rest. I just want to make sure she doesn't end up kidnapped or the victim of police brutality or a suicide victim or something. I want her to rest in a soft, clean bed inside instead of having to sleep on a hard metal bench outside. But for the time being I just let her rest.
So eventually the crisis support team gets here. They have a car, and they are two ladies. They're really nice. They ask her questions, and she is finally able to talk in full sentences, instead of only saying yes or no. This is a good thing. But the answers she gives still don't make sense. When the crisis response ladies ask her if she's staying with anyone, she says that she's staying with family. But when they ask if she knows the phone numbers of any family members, she replies that she doesn't have any family. When they ask her how she got to where she is now, she replies that she walked. Which I know is not true since I was on the bus with her and I got off said bus with her.
She keeps insisting that she needs to go back to where she was staying, she wants them to take her to where she was staying. She keeps begging to have help so she can go back. But when the ladies ask her what address she needs to go back to, she says she doesn't know. When they ask her if she has anyone's phone number that she could call, she responds that she doesn't know any phone numbers. She sounds incredibly distressed this whole time.
Eventually she says that she was trying to get to a bank, and so they ask her if she might be able to lead them to where she's staying if they start from the bank she was trying to get to. She says that maybe she can. She gets in the car with them and the three ladies drive off. So after this, I stay at the bus stop and I take the next bus home.
So I have no idea what happened to her beyond that. But I do trust the lady at the homeless shelter call line who told me to call the crisis response team. And I do trust the crisis response team because they're not cops, and they're very gentle and kind.
I sincerely hope that she gets the help that she needs and that she enters into a better mental state. I hope she gets back to her home and that she can be safe and comfortable. I hope she receives healthcare and mental healthcare because she clearly needs both. This is coming from someone who clearly needed both at one point too. I was extremely undernourished and suicidal once and going to the hospital kept me from dying. I hope that she gets the help that she needs. I hope that so much with all of my heart.
I am keeping her in my prayers, and I would really appreciate it if you guys could pray for her as well. I hope she can have the blessings of all the gods. I believe in the power of prayer and I believe in the power of love. I believe in the power of kindness, compassion, humility, empathy, and dignity. If you could all pray for her, it would mean an immense amount to me and I would be very grateful.
Autumn
Foreword:
It was autumn and she was halfway through sixteen
She was brave, she was selfless, she was the type of hero I could never be
It was autumn and she was halfway through sixteen
She wouldn't let them mold her into what they wanted her to be
It was autumn and she was halfway through sixteen
She had a coil scribbler in the pocket of her hoodie
And that meant everything
So she snuck onto the roof of a train
And then was never seen again
Autumn:
It's autumn
The sky is gray overcast
A lightening storm is brewing
Our POV character lies on the roof of a train
Rhythmically rocked by its movements
Hanging white-knuckled to the edge of the roof
In the pockets of her oversized sky-gray hoodie
Pressed between her and the metal car
There's a worn-edged notebook
The wind rips through her hair
Cold
Why is everything always so cold?
She hopes they haven't found her
Hopes they haven't followed her
She knows they probably hav
She'll have to climb down as soon as she finds a major station
Get lost in the crowd and and hopefully lost forever
The metal coil of the cheaply-bound scribbler digs into her rib cage
She doesn't have a plan
But she has a mission
And nerves of steel
Thunderstorm:
It's raining
Of course it is
The universe hates her
She put the notebook in a ziplock bag in a plastic bag
From her tattered backpack
The first chance she got, the first time the train stopped
In a small worn-down town
It would be too easy to spot a new face there she couldn't get off yet
The book is staying dry
That's all that matters
She normally loves cold
When it's natural cold
There's something about this windswept thunderstorm cold
That just isn't natural at all
Her fingers burn with cold, all heat seeping out of them, no amount of cellular respiration being able to ward off the rain
They slowly go numb, the most excruciating sort of numb
Then her palms
Then her wrists
Then her forearms
She wonders how much longer she can go on
If she died of hypothermia right now
Or if she couldn't hold on anymore and fell onto the adjacent rails
(Under rain-slick wheels)
I guess that would be the end of this story
And the story doesn't end until next year so
She makes it
To the other side of the storm
The sun peaks through the clouds
Shining on her strawberry-blonde hair which shines in return
Station:
Her hoodie is still damp
Her pocket is still full of blue-lined pages
She's a traveller she guesses
But this next station is large and it's crowded
Throngs of people with faces all tinted gray
She waits until the passengers have gotten off
Until there are no guards around
And she climbs down with as much agility as she can muster
She needs to melt seamlessly into this crowd
She has no money
She had had to run before she could pack anything
Stuffing the notebook into her pocket
And her half-empty backpack over her shoulder
Before she could pack anything
She'd laced up her ripped shoes
And she'd run into the woods
The woods she knew like the back of her hands
The woods that had raised her like a mother
Woods she'd be bidding farewell to
The people had looked for her in the town
And along the edge of the woods
But she crouched high in towering trees
Where they could never follow
She filled her stomach and her backpack full of berries
And she said goodbye to the forest that raised her
And she snuck onto the next train that pulled up into the station
She fled that town
Perhaps she'd be back one day to burn it down
Perhaps not
She was quite frankly out of both money and food now
But more importantly she was dehydrated
But that was a problem easily solved
If she was alright with drinking from the faucets in the public washrooms
It wasn't healthy
But beggars couldn't be choosers
She put her hands in her pocket, feeling the hard-soft edges of the scribbler under the thin layers of plastic
She smiled faintly
Sisterhood:
She can't remember her original name
It doesn't matter
She can remember the fire inside her
That is all that matters
Artemis Inciendio is who she is now
And it's what her new family knows her by
She's been here for who knows how long
In this dead-inside city
Months upon months
That shouldn't be enough to forget your own name but that name was forced upon her and it wasn't her's
So she tried her best to shove it out of her mind and it worked
She had made friends
With other wanderers like her
They were hungry together they were starving together sometimes they were cold together in winters and melting together in summers
She'd passed around the coil scribbler, and they'd all read the blue-inked words scrawled across it
It wasn't Artemis's handwriting
She had no idea whose it was to be honest but it was beautiful
They read to each other and told each other the stories until they were ingrained into their minds.
Fast forwards a few more months
It's the dead of winter
And it's an unnatural cold the cold of marginalization the cold of poverty the cold of nobody caring about you
Not the cold of Parent Nature
She's on the verge of womanhood but not quite there
She's huddled with two other girls in an alley somewhere
Under a raggedy black blanket
The tips of her fingers and her toes go frozen numb
Then her hands and feet
Then her arms and legs
It doesn't stop this time
The sun doesn't peak out of the clouds this time
They tell each other bits of the stories in the notebook
And it's like a fire it warms them
But not quite enough
When it finally is morning, a raven-haired girl untangles herself from two dead bodies, tears streaming down her face
She picks up the notebook in her thin, long, spider-like fingers
And she kisses it
And she kneels in front of her soul-sisters for a moment
And she gets up
And she walks into the morning
A worn-edged notebook in the pocket of her hoodie
Cogs in the Demon Machine
So I just had a terrifying yet potentially revelatory nightmare.
Idk how to describe it. It was all very creepy. So, it was winter. But it wasn't how winters are out in the woods or the fields or anything, with everything being peaceful and friendly and full of life, the cold stirring up your energy and the ice bringing forth wonder. Nah, I love nature-winter, just as I love nature-summer and nature-spring and nature-fall.
But no this was city-winter. It was sharp and unforgiving and tinted dark with air pollution. The buildings were gray, the air was gray, the streetlights towered and cars sped by, leaving thick trails of smoke. Candy wrappers and cigarettes littered the ground and the sidewalk was frozen hard under your shoes. It was the kind of day unhoused people dreaded. The kind of day I would have had to suffer through wearing torn shoes and a too-thin coat while waiting outside at the bus stop. It was the kind of day where you really feel the effects of capitalism, in all it's uncaring nightmare glory, beating down on you.
I had just walked out of my school and towards the crowded bus stop at the end of the street. On my way, I met these two girls. They were very pretty but there was something off-putting about them. Something dangerous. They were handing everyone free money. Three dollars, in the form of a loony and a toony. They told me it was for a birthday, which was kind of weird but okay. I put the money in my pocket, beside my bus ticket, intending to give it to someone who needed it.
I joined the crowd that was waiting for the bus. There were many people waiting anxiously for the bus to arrive. They were just as cold as I was, in pain in the frigid weather. This part of the dream actually doesn't make sense in real life since other people waiting for the bus tend to have much better and more wether-resistant clothes than me. So they tend to not be cold in the ten-fifteen minutes at most that we have to wait. But for some goddamn reason today everyone was wearing shitty clothes made more for the autumn than the winter. Anyways, it gets worse.
I was waiting for the Number 6 bus. As I usually am. So were a lot of other people. As they usually are. But the first bus sped by us. The second bus was not in service. The third bus was on route to go to all the wrong places. We kept waiting and waiting and more buses passed us by. It was starting to get dark. We were cold. We were desperate. We could see the worry in each others' eyes. We waited and waited until finally a bus came by. It was more of a van than a bus really. Small. But it it could take some of us. We all lined up, chasing the bus as it came to a stop, crowding around the edge of the sidewalk. We tried to all cram in there as much as we could. But the bus driver - a fat man with dark greying hair and amused eyes - sped away after only accepting two of us.
I was on the bus. I felt really bad that it had left my comrades behind. It wasn't fair. But there was an energy of fear in the bus, sharp and sticky and cloying. Hidden by the uncharacteristicallly plush seats and the merry mood of the driver. I look around. The other people in the bus had anxiety in their eyes. But while talking to them they assured me that the bus would take us to our destinations.
The bus driver was jovial, in good spirits, and assured us he would take us where we wanted to go. For a while we drove by, familiar buildings passing by as we went down the well-known road. But then the familiar buildings became unfamiliar ones, increasingly unfamiliar ones as we twisted and turned through the streets. I was so lost. I had no idea where we were or where to get off. Eventually the driver took us to the arena district - which was the most posh entertainment district in the city, filled with very expensive clubs and bars and restaurants and casinos and stuff I didn't even know. He made us get off of the bus into the cold, harsh, bitter and unforgiving morning outside.
His appearance had changed. He became tall and slender. The colour of his skin, hair, nails, everything, was the same colour as the winter outside. His dark eyes were full of cruelty, full of a raging, ferocious, corrupted hunger. Not the hunger of not having food, no. Not the hunger of actually being hungry. This was the hunger of wanting more, more, always more. Of never being satisfied. His nails were just a bit to sharp, just a bit too pointed, almost not human. His eyes were just a bit too dark, the colour a bit too indecipherable, and they were hungry, hungry, hungry. They were powerful. And they were raging. Inside him, you could tell, was a bottomless pit. One you could fill and fill and fill and fill and it would still be deep, and dark, and bottomless. His face was set in a cruel, severe expression. He didn't look human. Not really. But almost. You could believe that he was human, if you only glanced over him. Not if you looked at him for a while though. If you focused on him, you could tell. That he wasn't human. He was a black hole given human form.
He told us that we needed to work for him now. We needed to work to make him money. He told us that he must make money and we owe it to him to work. After all, he had so generously driven us. Never mind that he didn't even drive us where we wanted to go, I thought but didn't dare say out loud. None of us dared speak. We were all terrified of him. We were all acutely aware of the terrible and all-encompassing power he held over us. And we were all aware of the terrible and destructive rage he would fly into if we didn't do as he said. We were all aware that we were stuck. And that he had powers we did not know. Even if there were no walls, no fences, no chains binding us. Even if we could technically make a run for it. We couldn't. He would kill us. We knew that money was what he hungered for. Money was what he used to fill the ever-continuing, ever-reaching, ever-growing abyss inside him. We knew that he had a dark and twisted desire, a cold and cruel desire for money, money, more money. Consuming like some sort of demon. Which we was. No, he was worse. Demons weren't real. There was nothing not real about him.
He said that we had to do the jobs he told us to do. It was freezing and we were cold, cold, cold. But we were terrified. He told us that we had to do repairs and other maintenance around the arena district. We had to repair the tall, shining, artfully architected buildings that people spent their Friday evenings and weekends at. We had to keep the district up and running. Keep it pretty and beautiful as it shone full of metal and stone and glass. We had to serve him. And line his pockets. Nobody could see us. Nobody could hear us scream. Not unless we got away from him.
He put us to work immediately. We had to scale the large, spiralling buildings without any protective equipment. We had to work up there perching on the ridges and folds
... I'm too terrified to write any more. I don't know what about this dream scared me so much but I am so fucking terrified and I need to take a moment before I go on ...
I think I should describe the district. Most of the buildings were really new-age. They had walls and roofs that curved and folded and bent over themselves and twisted and spiralled and rolled like hills. It was all very artistic. It was all very materialistic. It was all very decadent and opulent. There were tall buildings that stretched up into the sky and wide buildings that sprawled out across multiple blocks, connected by twisting, glittering interior bridges. There were glittering and polished windows. Often the windows were from floor to ceiling. Often the windows took up the space of the entire wall. Often the walls were made of glittering metal. A very popular way to gild walls was with folded, overlapping panels of shiny silverish metal. There were also many buildings built with the straight edges and straight walls of the slightly older building style. They were all very tall, very straight, very imperious, as they stretched up towards the cloud-swamped, softly glowing sky. They were very clean. They had large windows, the bottom floors always being made of looming floor-to ceiling windows that were clear as crystal. They had many ledges and ridges. Like I said before all the metal was shining silvery-grey, sometimes more silver and sometimes more grey. But always so very clean. Sometimes it was reflecting like a mirror.
Sometimes it was had such a certain lustre that it almost glowed. Sometimes it almost had a sickly yellow tint. Sometimes it had a blue tint. Sometimes it even managed to have a pink tint. The stone, on the other hand, used in buildings, was imperious gray, jet black, shimmery brown, blood red, rich maroon, light creme, or even sometimes granite. Everything was so opulent. Everything was so rich. Everything was so oppressive.
The atmosphere was oppressive and heavy and it was dark and twisted. The surroundings held no life in them. Not any of the spark of life and kindness that lit up the kinder parts of the world. The air was polluted, polluted, oh so polluted. Everything was heavy and pressing. The world, the world around us was uncaring, apathetic, twisted, dangerous, and cruel. It was almost suffocating. An air of danger, hung thick all around. An air of terror, of unholiness, of corruption pressing and swirling in the weight of the air all around. It was claustrophobic despite - no because of - the grand scale of everything.
We couldn't take in the "beauty" of it. We couldn't notice any of the grandeur. It mattered not to us but rather passed by beyond our reach.
We were too busy being tired, sick, aching, scared, and cold in our hearts and in our bodies and in our minds. We were too busy being caught up in work, work, work. We were too busy pushing ourselves forward in the repetitive, agonizing, mind-numbing labour we were forced to do. We were too busy freezing and ignoring how we were freezing. We were too busy feeling our life force drain from us. We were too busy being tired, body and soul, and ignoring the tiredness in order to make him more and more and more money. We were too busy trying to ignore how our arms and legs and everything ached. We were too busy pushing ourselves to do dangerous work and feeling how it felt to not know if you were going to die or not. We were too busy not having anything. We were too busy being exploited. We were too busy slowly dying. We were too busy feeling pain and fear and death. Death hung over us ever-present.
He sent us up buildings, to scale walls and stand on ledges and balance on folds and whatnot, shining and cleaning and repairing without any safety equipment. We had no nets or harnesses or anything to protect us from falling. We had no helmets or any other protective gear. We had no warm clothes to protect us from the majority of the winter's chill. We had to work, work, work at a brutal, frantic pace, pressing our hands and bodies onto the cold of the stone and metal and glass.
I remember being up high, on top of the curve of a folded, new-age wall. Straddling the curving slope on either side. I had a bucket of cold, soapy water that was making my hands burn but I had to clean the building. All the while making sure I didn't fall off and die. I remember hating it so much and feeling myself die. But I was trapped in a crystal of his corrupted making. I couldn't do anything.
The people entertaining themselves and going about their day in all the bars and restaurants paid no attention to us, to our misery. They couldn't see us and even if they could they wouldn't care. They had cushy, intellectual day jobs that paid well, that they did in the safety of an office, that they pretended to hate so they could justify their lavish spending habits. Meanwhile the monster was getting richer and richer. And still he wasn't satisfied. He was never satisfied.
Every time we finished a job we had to come to him. He sat ruler-straight, imperious, and ever hungry. And we were aching and tired and we just wanted to rest. But he didn't care. He gave us no rest. He just gave us another job. And we had to go do it. We had no rest. No time to sooth our bleeding souls. No time to find some peace and calm. We only had the constant demand of filling his ever-expanding emptiness with coins that were as poisoned and tainted as he was.
We didn't want to but we were scared of him, so scared of him, so scared about what he would do to us, what he could do to us. He was unholy, and his unholiness extended out to all the world around us, choking us, poisoning us, feeding off of us. But he was all-powerful. His corruption was everywhere. His spirit reached out in all directions like electric wire, watching us, keeping us in line.
I wanted to escape, to go somewhere I could call home. We all did.
I was picking up trash from the stone courtyard of a great library/movie theatre when I figured out. I was between the slanted walls of two cold, looming glass pyramids. Despite the fact that the public sidewalks were littered with trash, the grounds of private property had to be kept clean. It almost felt protected though, between those sloping walls that provided the illusion of privacy. I realized what he was. I realized what he was doing to us. I had felt my life force draining out of me bit by bit but I had never paid attention to it. I had never known why. But now I knew. I felt it. He was drinking us. He was draining our life force and turning it into corrupted money for him to consume. He was slowly killing us and soon we would be dead. I knew I had to escape. I knew we had to escape. But how? We had no power.
He made us gather around. He told us that if any of us gave him six dollars he would let that person go. But none of us had that kind of money. At most we had three dollars from the girls on the street corner but many of us didn't even have that. I saw his offer clearly for what it was, a ploy to make himself seem good and reasonable while keeping us trapped in servitude anyways. He wanted to seem like he wasn't interested in oppressing us, only in making money. But I knew how he was draining our life force for money. I knew how draining us and oppressing us was inextricably tied to his ability to make money.
I had to think of a plan.
One time I was working near the very edges of where he was keeping us trapped. I was separated from him by two walls made of rough stone. They were also granting me the illusion of privacy. On the ground I saw some coins. A toony and two loonies as well as a few quarters and nickels. I was shot through with amazement and hope.
But upon closer inspection I saw that the money had the unmistakable quality of being tinged with the type of corruption that can only come from him. The money was unmistakably his. And this was a trap. Of course it was, it was too good to be true. Just a bit more than the money I needed to get free, and then some. He wanted me to pocket his change, to bring the money to him asking to be let go. And then he would accuse me of stealing and he would utterly destroy me. He would scrape the flesh off my bones and tear into my throat and drink my blood and bite into my bones and leave nothing left. Maybe he knew I was onto him. And he wanted to consume the last bit of me that he could. But still. I had to get free. I had to get free. I had to get free.
I pocketed the larger coins, too cautious to waste my time picking up the handful of smaller ones. He could come at any second. I did not intend to give him the money. But I knew that in this world, money was hard to come by and people could use it to keep themselves alive. I intended to give the money, along with the other money I already had, to someone who actually needed it. I don't know what happened after that. Maybe the rebellious act of stealing had given me the power I needed to break out of the spell for just a little bit. But I just started running as fast as my legs could carry me. I ran and I ran and I ran through the forcefield that had been keeping us in.
I knew I ignited his anger. I felt it the moment that I was free from the force field. So I kept running. My legs were sore and aching but they felt invigorated. My lungs were sore as I fought for every bit of oxygen I could get. I kept running and running until I reached my home.
For some reason my home was my science teacher's house. Like, my science teacher from real life. I'll tell you about her or else this part won't make sense. In the "real" world, the world outside the dream, where you and me and everybody lives out their waking lives, this woman was my science teacher and now she teaches other people.
I'm not going to tell you what year she taught me because on the off chance that she ends up reading this it would be incredibly awkward for her to know that she saved me from a capitalism demon in a dream that I had. Anyways, she really likes nature and really cares about the environment and taught me a lot of what I know about climate activism and stuff. She's also really nice to all her students and she's a communist.
Anyways in the dream she was all of that and she was also my mother.
In the dream I ran to her. And she felt bright and new and green like nature-spring. I told her everything that had happened. She told me that she knew what kind of creature he was. She had travelled the world and heard many stories of what exists beyond the physical reality. He was a Capitalist, a terrifying and dangerous creature that had an everlasting hunger for money and grew fat from harvesting the life force of humanity. She told me she didn't know how to get rid of him but that I must try, and I had her support.
I was scared. But I was also full of determination. I knew I had to end him. I had to end him immediately. I knew that I had a high chance of failing. A high chance of dying. A high chance of getting enslaved again and having my life force drained out of me. I did not care. I knew I also had a chance of killing him.
I marched up to him. He looked at me with his terrifying, dark eyes, and he snarled. I told him that if he wanted money he could come get the money. I held a toony up. He opened his mouth and rushed at me. But I jammed the coin into the roof of his mouth, making him bleed. He howled in pain as I jammed another coin into the roof of his mouth and two into the floor of his mouth, under his tongue. He howled in pain as he bled to death. And then finally, he was gone. Dissolved and carried away by the wind. Into nothingness. My friends were free! They were safe! They could go home and rest and live their lives as free people. They smiled and cheered.
But I still had the coins that I stole from him, which carried his corrupted essence. I was unsure of what to do with them. It was then that I realized. He might be gone but there were so many other creatures that were just like him. That were on the prowl. That were gaining power and draining their own victims and making the world what it was. We lived in hell.
I startled awake. Out of the dream. Into real life. I was so overwhelmingly scared. I tried really hard to forget about the dream, to stop thinking about it, to put it behind me. But I could remember his sharp teeth and his empty, abyssal eyes and his hard, uncaring expression. I felt his power all around me. And my heart thudded in my chest. He was coming to get me. He was coming to get me. He was coming to get me. But then I realized. That words have power. If I could explain to the world what happened, if I could explain what he was, what he did. If people knew about him. If more people knew. Then he would have less power. Then he would be foiled. I needed to fight him in real life, just as I had in the dream.
It's true that I woke up terrified but I woke up safe. I woke up in a house that was mine despite not being the home I wished was mine. I woke up secure. So many people don't. So many children wake up separated from their families all alone in dark rooms on hard floors. They're all alone. They're young. They're small. They're uncared for and unloved by all that surround them. They have no one they could call and no-one that would hear them if they did call. They have only their fear. Only their grief. Only their aloneness. They have no-one and they have to be quiet and not wake anyone. They can't even cry. They can't even scream. They have no-one to comfort them. No-one to help them. No-one that sees them as a person. No-one that sees them as a child. No-one who holds them and strokes their hair and tells them it will be alright. They just have to lie there silently, flooded with fear, silently trembling as they drown in their terror and grief. Young and already a victim of the system's destructiveness, of the cruelty of the people who benefit from it.
And I know because I've met children like that. I've turned my nose up at them. I've stayed silent to their injustice. You don't know what happens in places that aren't the West. You don't know what gets hidden and swept under the rug and never talked about and never taken seriously even if it is. We divide the world up into meet little categories that can easily be sorted. Put strangers in neat little boxes. Think that we can learn everything important about their whole lives from just a glance. We justify our wealth however we can.
Salt Water
Salt water clung to her skin, her eyes, her lips, burning. Exhaustion overwhelmed her as she desperately clawed the chilled ocean waves, trying to keep her head above water. Her damp, cold clothes were salt-encrusted and scraped her thin flesh like barbs, dragging her down with their waterlogged weight. Her throat and lungs burned from the salt water she had swallowed and inhaled. She had no energy left. She was clinging to terror and panic and a desperate need to live and absolutely nothing else.
The sun glared down hot and burning, turning the expanse of salt water into a blindingly bright blue. She was trying so hard to keep her head above water, but she found herself going under for longer and longer periods of time. She felt like her body was a dead, screaming weight. And her mind was delirious with pain and fear and exhaustion.
Salt water from her eyes met and melted into salt water from her surroundings as she finally gave up and let the ocean take her. Her chest felt like it was being wrung dry as she sank deeper, surrounded by darkness and cold and the heavy all-encompassing weight of death. She sank deeper and deeper, and found herself surrounded by a thick, rough, cutting substance that she could not figure out what it was. And then everything went blank.
———
Five men stood on a metal fishing boat. It wasn't the largest, but there was space enough to comfortably move around. They were surrounded by crates of fish but the fresh ocean air kept the stench of seafood at bay. They were pulling their nets up, noticing that they were much heavier than usual.
"What the fuck?" a brown-haired, muscular man exclaimed as a thin, lithe, dark-haired young woman tumbled out of the ropes, drenched in salt water and tinted in blood.
"What the fuck. I don't know what this is," a man with blond hair in a bun stared down at the scene, at the closed eyelids and limp, skinny limbs.
"I didn't fucking ask for this. Did you?" another man with brown hair and a skinnier build looked at his friends.
"I did not fucking ask either." A man with black hair and a square jaw looked up at everyone else, an annoyed expression on his face.
"Well is the girl even alive?" A strawberry-blond man asked with clear irritation in his eyes.
"Well there's one way to check," the dark-haired man replied as he bent down and felt for her pulse. "Just barely."
Without asking for permission the strawberry-blond man knelt down to do CPR on the unconscious girl. After a few minutes, some broken ribs, and a bunch of water on the floor, the girl was coughing, life seemingly put back in her small form. She looked around, startled verdant eyes taking everything in in panic and confusion.
"What the fuck, Jesse?" The muscular man asked the girl's rescuer, "now we have to deal with this. You could've asked us first."
"Shut the fuck up Mike. We can still talk this over. If I had waited longer she would've died."
"So?" the dark-haired man asked, "how is that even our business? We don't know her or what the fuck she is or what she wants."
"Petey I swear," Jesse started, "we can figure out what to do with her later. Just trust me on this, once."
"You better."
"Well what are we going to do with her?" The blond one asked.
"We can discuss it later, Leo."
"Who made you the boss?"
"I did now shut up Liam."
Leaving the girl there, half-sitting on the floor supported by her arms with a bewildered expression on her face.
———
The girl sat there, completely confused as the burning sun dried her, leaving her thin blue cotton dress stiff with salt and her black hair stiff with curls. She was in so much pain, almost delirious with it. Especially in her chest, which hurt so much. She looked around. She had no idea where she was or how she got there. She felt the sun too hot on her skin and the sea spray rough inside her chest. She heard snippets of conversation from the men who had gone around to the other side of the boat and were obscured by the cabin. She tried and failed to piece together what just happened, her mind swimming with pain and exhaustion.
———
The men stood leaning against the railing or the cabin, in heated yet hushed conversation.
"Why are you on her side Jesse? We can't afford to keep her here and you know it." Petey's voice was almost patronizing.
"I'm not on her side. Do you not have eyes? Look at her, all lanky limbs and delicate features and large startling eyes and full pink lips. It would be a shame to let that go."
"So? Oh my God Jesse, are you in love?" Mike asked. "You have a girlfriend. And I'm saving up for another car. Like you have no idea how hard only having one car is. I have to fucking take public transport sometimes and it's so inconvenient."
"Exactly," Leo added, "And my daughter needs new dresses. Good quality, hand-embroidered ones, none of the cookie-cutter shit. We can't afford to keep this complete stranger."
"We won't have to afford anything."
"You know the boat can only take so much weight." Liam said. "She's thin but she still weighs a good amount. If we take her to shore, that's pounds of fish that we won't be able to catch. A whole day's trip wasted, Jesse. We'd be down dozens of pounds of fish. That's so much money lost."
"Exactly, Jesse," Petey piped up, "I need to get new runners, I've had mine for a whole year."
"We can't afford her weight. None of us are rich," Mike tried to explain.
"I'm not saying we should bring her to shore. We can just have some fun with her before putting her back into the water where she belongs. Look, she's an incredible catch. I almost though we'd pulled up a mermaid."
"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" Mike sounded intrigued.
"I think I am."
"No, no. What will our wives and girlfriends say when they find out?" Liam protested, "you do love them, don't you?"
"Of course I love my girlfriend. But she does not need to know. Neither does your fiancée."
"Intriguing."
———
The girl was still trying to make sense of things. She knew she was on a smallish fishing vessel, on the ocean. She knew she had gotten rescued, and she was incredibly relieved. She sat with her arms hugging her legs, looking at the dazzlingly blue sky above. It was beautiful. It brought tears to her eyes. She was still in pain. But for the moment she felt lulled.
———
"Heyyy stranger." Petey smiled as he approached the girl. "We saved you. You happy?"
"Very, sir. Thanks." In truth she didn't entirely trust the situation. But she was happy to be alive. And she did trust him - all of them - a lot. They dragged her out of that horrible cold water. They brought her back into the world. They let her stay on their lovely boat. And she thought maybe they'd keep helping her. She just needed to get to shore.
"Well maybe you could show a little appreciation if you're happy?" He smiled again, just a bit too wide and off-kilter.
"Oh yeah, absolutely." She smiled back, hiding the pain in her ribs.
"Here, you're caked in salt." Mikey came up behind the pair with a bucket filled with water in his hand. "Wash your hair, girlie."
"Thank you."
She strained against her broken ribs to bend down and dip her hair in the water, wincing as she stroked the salt and sand and dirt out of her hair. She was grateful for the chance of getting clean. She was feeling quite itchy. But damn, this method hurt. Her chest felt like it was being wrenched apart.
Goddamn this was so much pain. Finally her hair and scalp felt much cleaner though, and she lifted her head, catching her breath as she waited for the pain to fade, which it didn't. She looked up at the group of men surrounding her with expressions that were overly-bright and just a bit off-putting.
"Thanks again," she smiled up at the men.
"Hey, it's nothing." Leo tilted his head a little bit as he looked down at her.
"Um... would it be too much trouble to ask for some food?"
"We're really sorry. We're fresh out. When we get to shore, yeah?"
"Okay." She tried to ignore how hunger gnawed in her stomach.
"Hey," Liam started, "you should probably clean the rest of you up as well."
"Okay." She took another bucket from him, which had a white rag of cold water on it. She wanted to rest right now. But oh well, whatever. There would be plenty of time for that once they got to shore. These men were really rather nice. She was very grateful for their company. She did need a bit of privacy right now though.
"Are you guys gonna leave?" She asked, looking up.
"I don't think we are."
She looked around for an opening, but didn't find one. She was surrounded on all sides.
———
She was horrifically tired, down to her very soul. Maybe in her very soul. Tears were silently, desperately falling from her eyes as she lay in the small cot in the cabin. They had called it "payment" for transporting her to shore.
It hurt. She hurt. She hurt inside and she hurt all over and she hurt in her heart. But it's not like she could do anything about it. She wasn't in control of this situation. She didn't have power here. Her life was in their hands. If they chose to save her they would. So far, despite the hurt, they had promised they would take her to shore. That's all she needed. To get to shore and then she could work something out from there. She felt so small, so helpless, so completely out of control and weak and dying. She lifted her eyes towards the sky again, gazing at the blue before exhaustion finally pulled her to sleep.
———
A pair of pale arms lifted the small, lithe sleeping figure, cradling her like a baby and holding her to his chest. Another pair of hands slowly slipped a long strip of cloth between her teeth and then around her head, circling and layering it again and again until there was a thick wad of cloth holding her jaw open and tight around her head. He tied it and gave the knots one last tug to keep them in place. Another pair of calloused hands tied a short length of rope around her ankles, and one around her wrists.
The nets were still sunken into the water now, but strong legs carried her to a side of the boat where there weren't any nets. Silently, solemnly, a small crowd gathered around the railing, around the young woman with the bony ankles who murmured softly in her sleep. There was a moment of hush that lulled over the boat for a moment. Everyone turned around and looked at each other for a spell, meeting each other's eyes, seemingly frozen. They looked almost shaken for a moment, before Mikey flashed a quick smile. The rest of them also smiled quickly, momentarily, before steeling their faces once again.
"Three. Two. One." Someone wisphered under their breath. Her body tumbled into the water, silent as she dropped through the air, still sleeping peacefully. The water splashed around her as she hit it, wide eyes startling open. She tried to scream but couldn't through the gag.
Three. Two. One. All that was left behind were ripples in the water.
———
Panic overwhelmed her for just a moment. She tried to swim but she couldn't. Water flooded her mouth and she couldn't close it around the gag. Fear pulsed hot and electric through her heart. And then it was just a hopeless, desolate sort of calm. She felt the water fill her lungs in ice-cold twisting agony. She was being pulled under. And she didn't even care. She had no will to live anymore. No will to fight. It had been ripped from her and she didn't care for it back.
Suddenly she wasn't cold anymore. Well, she was, but it was an exhilarating cold not a cutting one. All her bonds were broken. Suddenly she could breathe, the water flowing through her as easily as air. She opened her eyes to the blue-green glow of the water, and found herself face-to-face with a woman - no not a woman - a ... she didn't really know. Nothing hurt.
The lady glowed translucent in the water as it flowed through her. Her hair was dark black, full of thick curls, and longer than she was tall. She had a kind, passionate smile, and solemn, searching eyes. You could see the outline of tears rolling down her cheeks, though the girl didn't know how that was possible since they were in water.
The mysterious lady slowly reached out a hand for her, not touching, just asking. The girl reached out and took it, and then swam further into her embrace. The older woman held her tight in her arms, stroking the girl's tangled hair and singing something in words the girl didn't understand.
Eventually they stopped embracing and looked deeply at each other. The amount of sorrow in the older woman's eyes was overwhelming. And the girl found herself crying uncontrollably.
The lady pressed a kiss to her forehead and suddenly she found herself waking up on a beach, body healed, a large bag filled with food, water, clothes and money on her hip. She got up.
———
The ocean spirit drifted towards the nets of the fishing vessel that was meters away now. She tangled herself in the nets, among the struggling fish. She changed her form, becoming solid and taking the shape and colours of the girl she had just embraced, ropes forming around her wrists and ankles. She smirked, then closed her eyes, went limp, and simply waited until the nets were pulled back up.
———
"Oh why this again?" Jesse exclaimed as the crew pulled up a familiar-looking corpse.
They untangled the limp figure from the nets. But just as they leaned down to pick the body up and toss it overboard, her eyes opened. And from them shone blinding yellow light. Suddenly a bolt of lightening arched down from the clear, blue sky, hitting the boat and wrending it to a million pieces.
Hopelessness and Tomorrow
Laughter and idle chatter drifted through the brightly-lit, pastel-coloured room. Classical music played in the background. Symphonic, lilting. The walls were painted with bright flowers, petals encrusted with jewels.
Numerous paintings delicately hung from the walls, bright colours and soft brush strokes and shimmering frames. The air smelled like lavender and fake pine needles. Warm yellow light glittered through the crystal chandelier.
Reymi's vision was on the verge of swimming but he held it still with sheer terror. He was hungry. Starving. It clawed at his gut and his chest and his arms and his legs. Constant. Inescapable. With every breath his lungs felt weak and empty. The back of his throat turned with nausea and he felt light and off-kilter. And he was miserable. Scared and trapped and like his insides were being wrung out. He was too miserable to even cry, and too terrified as well. Storms were battering at every part of his soul. He felt like all he could hear inside himself was vast, all-consuming thunder, and screaming. He felt like all the tears he longed to cry but couldn't were distilling into crystals of pure poison and settling in his throat and chest.
But he had to keep working. It wasn't an option not to, no matter how much his body and mind ached for him to stop. His senses were screaming at him as he took rushed steps on his almost-trembling legs into the brightness of the large dining room. The world around him was both blurry and in focus at the same time. Both overly-sharp and completely faded all at once. He was focused on balancing the white gold tray that was piled high with lemon finger cakes. This act carried so much anxiety with it because he had to be efficient and precise and perfect, absolutely perfect. He wasn't likely to fall. If and only if he kept all his concentration. He wanted to collapse. Collapse and die. But that didn't matter.
His silent, ghostlike steps reached the large, carved mahogany table that shone a dull red, and he quietly set the food down before turning back to the kitchen, the one place in this overly-large house that was sparse, cold, and completely utilitarian.
Karria's eyes flicked over to Reymi for a moment. He was such a loyal and hardworking young thing, she thought, lucky we were able to find one like him. It's so incredibly difficult to get good help these days.
She turned her mind back to the lively conversation that was happening around the dinner table. Which contestant on Moonlight Dance Night Solaria was the best. Before that they had been talking about bars. And before that about how well their dear sweet genius children were doing in school. She turned the music up a little.
Reymi was in the kitchen pushing his tears down. He was succeeding. The twelve-year-old boy hadn't cried in years. It was far too dangerous to. He had no time though. He had to keep on working. His reached out and took a serrated-edged knife into his hands, and a block of thick dark chocolate onto the cutting board. He got dizzy for a moment, grasping the edge of the metal counter for balance. Wait, shit was it time to get the drinks actually.
He opened the door to the 5 degree fridge, and reached in for the multicoloured crystal tray filled with elegant curved glasses. He knew he had to be careful with this. His heart pounded in his chest but it always did that, this was nothing new.
He set it on the counter and then he closed the fridge door gently. Walking into the dining room again, he made effort to be as quiet and invisible as possible. If nobody noticed him nobody could yell at him. Thankfully nobody even looked at him once. That was good. He was used to being a shadow. He hated it. It tore at him from the inside. But it was better than getting yelled at.
He walked back in complete silence to the kitchen. He didn't remember if he had spoken at all that week, besides of course the constant yes ma'am and yes sirs that littered his life. He wanted a person to hear him. He had so much to say. He wanted a person to listen to and care about his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and experiences and fears and jokes. He would listen to theirs back. He wouldn't be like Missus Karria who made him listen to her long rants while only giving him a chance to nod his head.
He'd be a good friend. If he had someone to be friends with.
He had to stay focused, working, staying on top of things. That didn't mean he felt his grief less strongly. Just that it was also mingled in with panic and strain.
His body was ready to die, so it felt. Either way, the chocolate took precedence over him and he had to prepare it. He cut it into fine pieces, tossed it into the pot to boil. He had the recepie memorized by now he didn't really need reference. He poured in heavy cream, letting himself lean against the counter. He sprinkled in a cup of coffee powder, ignoring the way the counter dug into his hip. He didn't have the energy to stand. He added a few cups of sugar, and a pinch of salt to even it out. His throat and mouth felt like a poison mesh where all the tears he wanted to cry and all the words he wanted to say caught and festered and corroded at him. He used a cheese grater to sprinkle a few sticks of cinnamon in, and he threw in some cadmium. Throwing in some caramel and some peanut butter, he started stirring the contents. He honestly didn't have much time. He hoped he wouldn't be late.
Finally though everything settled into a thick, flowing homogenous liquid. He put the heat to low and then checked the timer in the oven. The velvet cheesecake wasn't done yet. He had a moment. It was a small mercy.
He leaned against the counter. Let his mind and body both collapse against it for a moment. Sheer exhaustion. Everything blacked out, and he let himself fall into it. But then he pulled himself back into the world of the living, internally screaming. He couldn't go yet. Even if he wanted to.
He pulled out a heavy, intricately-carved bowl from the cupboard. A few matching bowls. A silver, green, and blue circular tray with a similar colour scheme, and the matching plates for that. A large bowl with frilled edges and smaller ones. That should be enough.
His bones and muscles protested, everything in his mind wanted to rest, wanted to sleep, wanted to run away, wanted somewhere soft to fall into and a kind smile and loving arms to be in. He wanted to die. To not have been born. To have a friend. He wanted so much and he could get none of it.
Either way, the table needed clearing.
He rolled a large metal tray towards the incredibly long table, and set about taking off all the plates and glasses and rolling them back to the kitchen. He had no idea how he could keep going on but he thought maybe he could.
He didn't know why he wasn't strong enough to just give up already. To just end his useless life already. He didn't want to keep living. He was just too much of a coward not to.
Back in the kitchen, he set everything on the counter. There were left over bites of food he could eat, plates he could lick. It wouldn't be much at all but it would be so much better than nothing. Added onto the stuff from dinner and lunch and breakfast, it would almost be a full meal. But he didn't have any time at all to eat now. He had to keep working.
He poured the chocolate into the large bowl, placing it onto the tray. He placed all the smaller cutlery neatly piled onto each other on the tray. His pace was dizzying for his worn-out mind. It would be dizzying for any mind. He took the cheesecake out of the oven, wincing as he burned his finger. It wasn't the worst he's faced. He transferred it, oh so carefully, to the glass tray. And finally he got some ice cream from the -10 degree fridge.
He kept telling himself, he just had to get this over with and then he could come back and lick all the plates. He could rest. He could talk. He could eat. He could be left alone for a bit. He just had to set this table and then he'd be home free. Home free with icing and gravy and turkey bones and dressing an ends of vegetables and peace and quiet, until it was time to clear everything up and wash the dishes.
He kept that thought in the back of his mind as he carefully set the table with desert, proper desert. Glasses were already on the table, along with the large bottle of champagne that has been there the whole night and was running low. He supposed he should get another one. Sigh.
He wheeled back into the kitchen, and then carried in another bottle of champagne in his aching hands.
He turned to leave.
"Reymi!" The voice was cold and hard and full of hatred and contempt and disgust. It was the only way anyone ever said his name. Swallowing down the desire to cry, the desire to run, he turned and faced the owner of the voice.
"Yes?" His voice was small and he could almost hide the grief within it.
"You need to clean up a spill in the sitting room!" He didn't know why there was always so much venom in her voice for him and only him.
"Yes ma'am." Honestly, some variation or another of yes ma'am was all he ever said to other human beings it seemed. Anyways he got some rags from the supply closet at the end of the hall and marched into the sitting room.
The speakers were blasting. The television that took up half of the vast, stretching wall was playing something he didn't have time to look at. Something 3D if everybody's dark glasses were anything to go off of.
There was some dark cocktail spilled out across one of the glass coffee tables. Thankfully none was on the thick, soft carpet. That would've been a nightmare to get out.
As much as he didn't want to, he heard snippets of the television program. It seems like some high-faluting political types are giving speeches.
"The threat these crazed lunatics posed on the well-being of our glorious nation is no more."
Who? Whatever. He sprayed down the table a little bit to get rid of the last sticky bits.
"Haynenne Drayle and Azera Hermann are in a top security prison. The two women will be publicly hanged tomorrow at sundown."
Oh. Them.
Reymi finished up and headed back.
In the soft dull light of the kitchen he took some time to scarf down leftovers and lick plates like a crazed beast. For the past few days all he'd had to eat was what he could salvage from what everyone else didn't eat. It was the summer solstice, a national two-week holiday. Days of all-day parties meant that money was tight and they didn't want to spend money on him. Whatever bits he could sneak from ingredients or leftovers was all he had and it wasn't enough.
But still, he got to rest right now, to eat right now. This was usually the best part of the night for him.
But despite all this, for the first time in many years, Reymi was crying.
He knew about Haynenne and Azera. He's been able to read a bit of a newspaper article about them once, during a stolen bit of precious downtime. Nobody knew that he could read. Haynenne Drayle and Azera Hermann were respectively three and four years older than him. They were in love. Azera worked at a school, Haynenne in an orchard. They'd taught themselves how to read and write, much like his mother had taught him when he was still young. Haynenne was sold to a man miles away from her beloved. Azera carefully stole and forged papers, at great personal risk. But she was able to use them to run away. She found Haynenne and together they burned down the house of the man who had her trapped there. And they escaped into the night.
Reymi has felt a spark of hope, a drift of cold, fresh air, on hearing their story. Maybe it's possible to win against Solaria after all. But apparently not. Love, defiance, cleverness, rage, hope, nothing was enough against Solaria's wealth and military strength and power.
Solaria was everything. Solarians were everything. Haynenne and Azera were powerless. His mother and father were powerless. His people were powerless. He was powerless.
Whatever was keeping him clinging to life fell away.
He got a knife. A short one with razor edges. He held it up to his neck. And pulled. One quick movement and he was fine. It burned. But he felt himself gratefully sinking into the afterlife.
Karria call for him in a few dozen minutes. And threaten to kill him when he didn't answer. She wouldn't know how useless a threat that was. How he'd never have to answer to her again. She'd walk in to see blood everywhere, and the soulless body of a twelve-year-old lying across the floor.
She'd scream. More because she didn't like seeing blood and less because she cared about the fate of the boy. She'd rant about how she'd have to find a replacement right in the middle of solstice season and she did not have the time. She'd rage about the huge mess that was all over the kitchen, how it couldn't just sit there and fester all night.
She'd have to clean up the mess herself though.
And Reymi would be in a Green Place where everyone was equal and no child was ripped from their family. He'd be welcomed by Azera and Haynenne. And the trillions of others whose lives were cruelly cut short. And together they would train. They would forge themselves into an army and they'd would kill whatever twisted god allowed Solaria.
All is Fair in Love and War
Azalia focused on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. She focused on gently rocking baby Lohan in her arms. She had no idea why, but it was imperative that the baby didn't cry. She cried, though silently. Did Mac and Kaliaa make it? She hoped against hope that they did. Would Lohan be able to see them again? He was too young to be an orphan. The sky was heavy and dripping with a torrent of explosives.
She was crammed in the basement of a small yet sturdy church along with six of her neighbours. Netha, the old woman whose presence she was glad for. Allie and Juneka, twins that were two years younger than her. Dio and Eren, who were in love and who she shared her house with. Sami who flirted with her and she could never tell whether the other teenaged girl was serious or not. She could almost hear the war raging around them. For some reason there was abject silence around her. But people were clutching each others' hands, leaning against each other, crying into each other's shoulders. She held Lohan in her arms. She had been looking after the infant boy while his parents were out in the fields. He was teething, meaning that he was especially fussy. But now he had went still with terror. That was good. Even if they did survive this bombing, it was almost certain that this was the last holdout before the entire fucking town fell. And she knew the rules of war.
Hours and hours passed. Lohan was asleep for a lot of it. Thank the gods. But he woke up hungry and fussy and crying like all eight-month-olds who missed their parents and were hungry would be. Azalia literally did not have any food. Nobody did. She gave him her finger to suck on and kept rocking him and prayed that he'd feel some sense of comfort but she knew what the boy needed and she knew she was an abjectly powerless poor young peasant girl and if she walked out of this church right now she'd just be delivering the boy to enemy soldiers.
Eventually she couldn't ignore the child's hunger any longer. As much as getting bombed or shot would kill the kid, starving would also kill the kid. Loud crying that drew attention to their hiding spot would get literally everyone captured including Lohi.
"Aunt Netha can you take Lohan? I need to get some food." Her voice was hushed as she spoke to the old woman beside her.
"Sure. Good luck. Stay safe." The tired old woman gently took baby Lohi from her and Azalia slowly arose and quietly walked towards the heavy metal door.
"Be careful," someone whispered to her but she didn't know who.
The day has melted into twilight when she stepped out. She started in the shadows of bombed-out rubble. Not that it provided much cover. All the buildings in their farming town were barely taller than her anyways and now they were mostly dust. For the past four years people had crammed themselves into the increasingly dwindling living space like the story of the little pigs. She loved the small, simple one-room huts she shared with her family and neighbours. But that was back when they were six to a hut now it was frequently fifteen. And her family was gone. She stayed near the few still-standing walls and near broken trees. Off in the distance soldiers were concentrated, she could tell by how laser fire lit the darkness with an eerie yellow.
She found a tree that was full of soft, sweet jili fruits. Thank the gods. Ignoring her own fatigue she hoisted herself onto the higher branches. She had no basket to put them in, Fuck. She was really unprepared. She slipped off her shirt, ignoring the cold of the night, and tied it into a sort of bag.
After she had filled the worn threads of her shirt she climbed out of the tree, careful to not spill anything. She walked quickly back to the church, ready to collapse the moment she got there.
And really she should have been more careful. It was, it was cloudy, it was moonless, it was starless when the unnatural glow of a laser bolt zipped dangerously close to her, briefly illuminating her terrified slight figure. She stood there frozen before she ran off into the cover of a pile of rubble.
"Hey! What's a young lady like you doing in a war zone like this?" Azalia couldn't breathe. The words were kind but the tone was seeped with haughtiness, with predatoriness. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?
The tall, hulking form of a man dressed in a uniform strode up to her, backing her into the brokenness around her.
"Please let me go. I have a baby." Her voice was shaking. He charged up his blaster, so that the barrel was lit with a soft glowing light, too dark for the fighters in the distance to see. It glowed pale against her olive skin, dim against his camouflage. She hated all the soldiers equally regardless of what side they were on. She hated this whole war and the governments in their palaces that started it. But she could see that this guy was an enemy soldier. And that made things worse for her right now.
"And who's the lucky father of this baby?" He staked a step closer, leaned in until she was lying against the sharp prices of clay. She shook her head, terrified.
"What, did he die? Did one of our guys kill him? I suppose I should thank that comrade for making you available." What the fuck? If she wasn't two moments away from literally getting raped she would've laughed at this idiot soldier. She didn't have a dead husband or a living husband or even a boyfriend. She had her friends' child who she loved as her own. But that was the thing. Zohan was getting weaker by the moment and his survival was more important than anything that happened to her. This man might for all intents and purposes kidnap her. And then how would she deliver the much-needed food? She needed to think. The man was straddling her hips but making no attempt to get any of her clothes off, instead hovering his weapon on different parts of her body, idly looking over each piece of skin he illuminated. She was panicking more than she ever had, desperately digging with her hands through the rubble for any sort of weapon at all.
"You're by far the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.
Though I suppose you're not quite a woman yet. And I found you which means I get you by the way. I can't believe my luck. You're going to like it in Zirunika you honestly are. There are buildings that soar to the sky and shine in the sun. There are marble monuments to our glory. Bright gardens. It's beautiful there much more beautiful than in these backwoods villages. I'd be taking you away from this squalor and drabness."
"Sir just let me go." She squirmed under his roving hands.
"You're too pretty. Prettier than anyone I've seen. Prettier than anything I've seen. I'm never letting you go. I'm taking you to civilization with me." His words were heavy and thick and pressed down on her throat and chest.
Finally her hands clutched around a shard of clay pottery. It was easily sharp enough to tear through flesh. But so much of the soldier was covered in thick fabric. Through the haze of horror, worry, and disgust a plan pulled itself together.
Striking quickly, she brought the shard up to the skin of her neck and started pressing down, hard enough to draw blood. It was a risky move. But it worked. He stopped, looked at her in... maybe it was confusion?
"I promise to come back to you. But first I have to drop this stuff off. Do not follow me. Or else I will kill myself. And then where would you get your perfect little war prize? Let me drop this off and then I swear I'll be back."
"Stop this madness."
"Take me to your beautiful civilization just let me do this one last thing as a free person."
"You'll come back?" There was something almost childish in his words.
"I promise."
"Fine." He got off her. And everything inside her screamed at her to run. But she knew better. She has to sell the lie. She's been poor for long enough to know the value of lying to power. But now it was more important than ever that she succeeded at deception. She walked calmly into the night.
"— wait." She turned back, just as he latched a thin band of metal around the base of her neck. He pressed his thumb into it and, goddamn, she felt like she wanted to die right there. But she hid the feeling.
"This ensures you'll come back to me, and that you'll stay with me all the days after."
"Alright sir."
She walked through the active war zone back to the little church where she'd see her people for the last time. She was extra vigilant that nobody followed her. She didn't want to lead them to the rest of her people. Lohan was to young to be west away from his world, and honestly nobody deserves it. She felt like her entire soul was flaking apart. She felt like her humanity was being drained from her. The collar was smooth and left plenty of room but it felt like a barbed wire noose. She was used to terror. She was used to hunger. She was used to weariness that settled into every corner of her being. She was used to grief that was insurmountable. She was used to physical pain. She was used to cold, to sickness. She was used to mourning, she was used to constant anxiety. And it all hurt terribly and she hated all of it but at least she had her friends and neighbours to get her through it. But now this was goodbye. This was farewell. And she wouldn't even get to say it to everyone.
She silently descended into the basement of the church, and pulled herself in, She passed the fruits to Sami. And then collapsed in her arms crying. Sami held her and cried with her.
"I'm glad to have known you," Sami said softly.
"You too."
Azalia stayed there for a while, in the embrace of her people. Holding baby Zohan, feeding him one last time. Telling him how much she loved him, how much she hoped he had a good life. She fell into the arms of Eren and Netha and Dio and Sami and Allie and Juneka. They told her how much they loved her. How glad they were to have known her. How kind she was. How strong she was. How interesting her thoughts were. How much she helped them and protected them through the horrors of the long war. How much they enjoyed raising her or playing with her before the war started. How much they would miss her. How they wouldn't forget her. How they would think of her and would hope things were at least a little bit kind for her. She told them how much she loved them too.
Hours passed. The fighting died hadn't down around them. It wasn't safe to leave yet. But Azalia knew that she had to. With tears in her eyes she hugged everyone one last time and stepped out of the door. It was still dark.
She walked past the rubble that was all anything was these days. She didn't take precaution to avoid getting killed. She turned to see that the tree she had picked jili fruits from has been killed in the bombing. Nothing good lasts. She had her shirt on now and it felt like a small bit of protection. She waited near the same rubble pile where she first "met" the soldier. She didn't even know his name. She let her tears flow freely.
Another hour or so passed. The fighting died down. A military glider zoomed up to where she was standing. Headlights shone through the darkness. It was emblazoned with the seal of presumably Zirunika. It could fit a lot of people, if they sat close, but only for people stepped out of it. One of them was that man. With great effort she kept her body absolutely still.
"Oh gods, she is a fine thing. It's not fair that you found her first Patton." The soldier's tone was jovial.
"Well maybe Lord Aldura favours me. Because she is mine."
They bantered back and forth a little bit. Azalia couldn't pay attention to any of it, her mind was screaming. Patton slung her over his shoulder and got on the glider. He positioned her onto his lap as he sank into the plush seat.
"You'll love it there. I have so much to show you." He traced the hemline of her pants.
As they zoomed away Azalia kept her eyes glued to her village until it faded into the night.
———
If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I po about human rights, social justice, and the environment.
Ruby
It's nighttime. It's dark. And I'm alone. And I'm rotting from the inside out like I always am. It hurts. Not me. The people. The masses. It hurts. Them. They hurt.
And I'd like to live a virtuous life, I think. But the truth is I'm honestly too wrapped up in sin.
It's nighttime. It's dark. The moonlight glints on the water, low and dull and slimy. I can see it from my arching, clawing window. Not that I care. I'm too far gone to care.
I hate the river and everything it's come to represent.
Death is really the only way out of this bullshit is what I'm trying to say. We hate ... we do absolutely hate those who didn't take up La Causa and that includes us but the promise of a better world is just as out of reach as the promise of justice is.
He comes to me when it's late at night, one night. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Angelic. Enticing. Entrancing. My knees are weak. And I know I'm a disappointment to him. But I want to know him. I reach out to touch (to taste) but I'm stopped by ... by something clutching at me with waves of smoke. Just a few millimeters away from falling out the windows into the depths of his arms.
Milimeters. I think about him sometimes when my mind lets me. Dear God he's beautiful. Pitch-black (raven-black) wings darker than the sky around him, feathery. If he but touched my hair I could perhaps learn not to sin. If he kissed me roughly, desperately, I would melt into the ground in the best possible way. Emerging from the shadows of the cave of ignorance and ego, into the light and freedom of equality. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, part of me thinks of saying. But I can't or maybe I don't.
The words I love you don't mean I want to touch you. The words I love you mean I want to die for you.
I want to die for your cause. I want to die for your well-being. If my death is what it would take for you to get the respect you deserve then I forfeit this life. And I want to die for someone's cause. For his cause. I want to burn all his demons, crush all his enemies. I want to help him emerge victorious. But I also don't want to. I'm a cog in a machine and I'm too young to fulfill my place on it, young enough to have some rebel left in me. But that will change if time finds me alive in two years' time.
I want to die for you, I want to die for you, I want to die for you. And I don't want to die for him, but part of me does. And if he wanted me to touch him I would, I hope.
I'm dreaming. I'm standing in front of a boy that shimmers like moonlight. Magical. Not pretty how a painting is pretty but pretty how a blizzard is pretty. Powerful. Potentially devastating. But a part of nature in all it's glory. A force of nature. Necessary. To be respected, feared, and admired all the same. His hair shimmers like dusk. My knees are weak. I cut open my palm with a small dagger. The blood is beautiful, burning, red. So red. I bring my hand to his cheek, caressing, leaving trails of red as I make my way to his lips. I hover over his pink lips gently, not touching, waiting for him to move.
He's buzzing with electricity and moonlight and hope and brightness. Need. Dear God, he's everything that belongs in the world. My knees are weak, weak, weak. His whole being is overwhelming. Hope and anger. Hurt and desperation. Love and confidence. He's the Katniss to my Peeta and he knows it.
He holds my hand in his, and presses my bloody palm to his lips. I smile, my eyes lighting up. He presses hard, longing kisses into my palm and it hurts and I love how it hurts. Suddenly heavy, invisible arms try to pull me back but he keeps me there, the light from his eyes banishing my demons. He looks ... he looks imploring as he asks me to ... to stay. I do.
His lips, his chin, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. All smeared a wild, wild crimson. He shoots me a playful, almost childish look. I shoot one back. He takes hold of the back of my hand again, moving it down his face and licking my fingers with an exaggerated, unapologetic expression. I laugh. Quietly. We honestly can't be found out.
Like ... I mean we can ... but not by ... not by anyone society would take seriously. So if like a little girl walked in on whatever this is we'd be fine.
His spit and my blood intermingle on his face as he pushes his tongue through my fingers. Smiling, I press one on my fingers into his mouth. He looks delightfully surprised, and sucks softly as I press my still-bleeding wound onto his chin, his cheeks. He leans into it, and my hand throbs with pain. I press two other fingers into his mouth. He pulls a fourth one in.
Blood has started to run down even his neck now. We stay like this for a while, my fingers dancing in and out of his mouth, like threads being woven by his own slender fingers. my blood dripping all over him.
The lock to my door starts turning. We gasp as he opens his mouth and I yank my hand away, behind my back. Whoever is behind that door is not a little girl.
"The world pulls, you pull back harder." He whispers, barely whispers, and I have to strain to hear. And I think of all the people that are unheard in this world. This is who the song is about. And I remember. But my hand is still bleeding. I hope it never stops. I kiss it, tasting his sweet, bitter saliva. And I drift off to sleep.
I awaken with a large, gaping, scabbed-over cut on my hand. And I cry tears of joy.
Mountains and mines and factories and plantations and houses still exist. But butterfly wings also exist. Firework people also exist. And obviously something deeper, more all-encompassing, fairer, more equal, more motherly, exists. It exists beneath the surface, aching to be let out. Rich people have their own God. Revolutionaries have a different God.
———
If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I po abo human rights, social justice, and the environment.