"Remember children," my adopted mother tells my adopted sisters and I, "when you help other people, they are more likely to help you when you in turn need help."

I am with my adopted family, my mother and my two sisters. We are in the living room of our house, sitting on the plush sofas with gold edges, talking. We are beside the big window that has a lively view of the woods outside our house, woods I am very familiar with. I like talking to my family. Mostly. There is something about it that makes me slightly desolated. But I don't know why. My family is nice.

But I'm sad. I'm so beyond sad. I'm always sad, and I don't know why. There must be some kind of chemical imbalance in my brain. Well, whatever. My mother has spent enough money on me already. Money is precious. I don't need her spending more money on getting me therapy and medication and all of that. I just need to deal with my sadness all by myself, even though it's so great, even though it's so terrible. I am stronger than they think I am. I have to be strong. No matter how hard it is.

"That makes sense," my sister Anabella responds. "Gratitude is a very strong emotion, and it can come in very handy." Anabella is very beautiful, because of the complicated skincare routine she does each day, using all-natural, fair trade products.

"Exactly," my other sister Riviera agrees. "When people in a society all owe each other, that makes the society more tight-knit, and they become more able to withstand adversity and obstacles, ultimately benefitting the individual." Riviera is very smart. It shows through in the way she talks, in what she says, in everything about her. She reads lots of books and absorbs so much knowledge from them.

Compared to these two girls, I cannot help but feel as if I'm inadequate. I'm not pretty. I'm not smart. I'm not able to do anything special. I'm just a normal girl. I don't know what I'm able to give to this family. I don't know what I am able to give to this town. I can only try my best. And this sinks down heavy into me. Because it's never enough, not truly. My best is never enough. My existence is never enough. I'm not worth all the resources that get wasted on me. There are so many people who are so much more worthy.

"That's right," mother tells us. "When the group is doing well, the group can take care of you better. We are social beings, us humans. And social interaction is all about give and take. The more you can give, the more you can take."

"You only get what you give," Anabella declares. "Those who can give more can get more."

"Exactly," mother agrees. My adopted mother is a very wise woman. She has so much knowledge. And because she has so much knowledge, she is able to do very well for herself and her family, she is able to thrive in this corrupted world. She has a large house that she has bought, filled with many pretty things, and she was able to take me in as well.

She has raised me since I was a newborn. I almost don't remember my biological parents. Though I suppose that's a good thing. They gave me up. They probably didn't want me. My adopted mother has done so much to take care of me, I really shouldn't be missing people I barely remember. But I do. I miss them so much. I don't know why I miss them, I don't know what I miss. But the absence of my parents sits heavy in my chest, in my throat, in my gut, all the time. I don't know how to escape this feeling.

I feel as if something vital and integral to who I am has been ripped from me. I feel as if I am walking around with an emptiness in my chest, in my stomach, in my throat. I feel as though I am walking around with an emptiness in my soul. As if it's all not mine. As if all the pieces of me are all not mine. My life is not mine. Nothing is mine.

I feel inhuman. I feel unliving. I feel nonexistent yet horribly, horribly, intolerably existent at the same time. As if I am some horrible, wretched beast made of a slime that is too disgusting to be real and too tangible to be fake. I am a hollow shell. I am nothing yet I am some thing. I am a thing.

"What do you think, little Zia?" Anabella asks me.

"I think you guys are very wise," I respond to her. "I'm learning a lot, listening to you guys talking."

"That's good," my mother tells me. "The more you learn, the more you'll be able to fulfill your role in society."

"Thanks," I tell her.

"So, what are some ways you can build gratitude within the people in your life?" mother asks us.

"We can give them things," Riviera suggests. "A debt of a material nature is probably the hardest debt to pay back, especially if they do not have much access to resources."

"Yes," Anabella cuts in, "and they'll be trying to make up the difference in all sorts of other ways, this is a great way to build long term loyalty."

"Loyalty is a very important resource," I say. "You never know when you're going to need it."

We keep on talking, the four of us, until we see the sun set outside. It is a glorious, burning orange colour that fades out into gold higher up in the sky. But it's more than colour. It is so much more than colour, so beyond colour, that it isn't even colour at all but rather pure emotion. It fills me with a sense of wonder. It almost feels like home, feels like belonging, feels like all of these feelings that are denied to me. I almost cry with joy as I look out at the sunset in silence, along with the rest of my family.

"That's beautiful," Riviera comments, a high sort of awe in her voice.

"Look at the colours," mother says. "Red, orange, yellow. So very vibrant and bright."

"It's glorious," I agree.

It's dinner time after that, and we gather in the large dining room. I bring all the bowls of food up to the table.

"Thank you, Zia," mother tells me. I smile at her. She's so nice. I tell myself that she's nice. I tell myself that she appreciates me, she appreciates what I do for her, she appreciates what I do for the whole family. Though it's not enough, it's never enough to make up for all the things she has done for me.

I sit down at my own spot at the large, intricately carved, polished wooden table. I sit down in front of my shimmering silver place mat and give myself a healthy heaping of the vegetable and beef stew that we cooked together yesterday. The food is good. The food is always good. But there is a part of me that feels almost guilty for eating it, I don't know why. It feels criminal, the act of giving myself food. Although there's plenty of food to go around. There is always plenty of food to go around.

We keep talking as we eat. We're a close-knit family. We talk whenever we get the chance to. I try my best to keep a cheerful expression and tone. I try my best to not let anyone see what's going on inside of me. I'm in such a bright and cheerful room with such bright and cheerful people. I should be nothing but bright and cheerful myself, so that I can at least pretend to fit in, so that I can at least pretend to belong.

And they're none the wiser. They don't suspect that I don't belong here. They don't suspect that I don't belong among them. And I'm such a liar and such a traitor but they would be so, so disappointed to know the truth. I absolutely dread disappointing them.

"Take some more stew," my mother tells me, "there's plenty to go around."

———

I'm in my room. The door is locked from the inside. It locks from the outside too, which is a bit scary but it's that way with all the doors in the house. I'm glad that I'm alone right now. It means that I don't have to pretend. I don't have to put on a mask and pretend to be happy in front of everyone else. That's a huge burden lifted from my shoulders, though the heavy weight of sadness is still there, it's always there, and I don't know what to do with it.

Being alone most of the time would kill me even more, and I'm very genuinely glad that I have plenty of company, but having some time to be alone is welcome.

So I lie in my bed. I lie in my soft bed, under my soft blankets, and I cry. I look up at the ceiling and I let my tears fall freely. Why I'm crying I have no idea. I have no idea why I'm crying but I'm crying anyways. And I do know why I'm crying.

I know that it's because it's all wrong, it's all so terribly wrong. Everything is wrong. My life is wrong. Who I am as a person is wrong. It's all twisted, it's all corrupt, it's dark and thorny and it's not right. The thorns of everything I am inside are piercing my flesh, piercing my organs, piercing my capillaries until my entire body is bleeding, my mind is bleeding, my heart is bleeding, my soul is bleeding.

I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding. Everything inside me is bleeding. And everything I am is bleeding. My existence is slipping through my fingers. I am slipping through my fingers. I am losing more and more of myself. I am leaving myself until there is nothing of me left. But I'm here, I'm here, I'm irrevocably here at the same time. And I can't escape, I can't escape, I can't escape.

I am no-one. I am nothing. I am less than no-one. I am less than nothing. And I cannot ever be anything because everything I am is twisted. Everything I am is nothing. Is less than nothing. Everything I am is wrong and everything about me is wrong and it's so wrong and it's so wrong and it's all wrong and my whole life is so wrong.

I don't know why I feel like my life is wrong. But I know it is. There is no reason to think this. There is no reason for me to hate this life that I'm living, no reason to be disturbed by it. But I am disturbed. I am so disturbed. But, my life is fine. I go to school, and the teachers are nice, and the kids are nice. I get decent grades. They're not extremely good but they're pretty good. I have a few people I talk to at lunch time. I go home and my home life is good. My mother is nice. My sisters are nice. They all treat me well. Everyone treats me well. So why do I feel like this?

It must be because I am deeply horrible, I am deeply ungrateful, I am deeply unsalvageable. There are so many people who have it worse than me. There are so many people who have it so, so much worse than me. So why can I not be happy with what I have? Why can I not be grateful for everything? It's all going right. It's all going so very right and yet it's all going wrong. It must be because of me that it all feels so very wrong. It must be because of some fault of my own.

I have so many faults. I have so many flaws. I can't sleep at night, I'm lazy, I'm ungrateful, I can't be happy. I'm not pretty or kind or a good student or outgoing or brave or clever or wise or anything. I'm not athletic, I'm not coordinated, I'm not organized. It's all not enough. Everything I do and everything I am is all not enough. It's all not enough and I'm so inadequate and I'm so wrong.

I'll never be enough. I'll never be enough. No matter what I do, no matter who I be, it's all not going to ever be enough and I'm going to not ever be enough. Because the thing that is wrong with me is intrinsic. It's inherent. It's so deep that it reaches its scarred, infected tendrils down to my very core, through my blood, through my bone marrow. It's so all-reaching that it claws and grasps and wraps around every part of me. Around my throat. Around my eyes. Around my fingers and my toes and my stomach and me knees. It is both invading me and residing with me as if it was meant to be there always. I guess it was meant to be there always.

I guess this is all I am.

I feel poison in every part of me. Poison in my bloodstream, poison rushing through all my veins, all my arteries, all my venules, all my arterioles, all my capillaries. The poison is flowing through me as if it is blood. It is plunging inside me and entering all the space around my cells. All my interstitial fluid is full of dark, corrupted, thick poison. It is entering my cells, and my cytosol is saturated with it. My lymphatic tissue is flowing with poison and my lymph nodes cannot clean it out because there is just so much, just so much, just so much. My cerebral fluid is filled with poison and the poison is surging through my brain. It's surging everywhere.

And the thick, viscous, vicious black fluid is pouring through all the many, many tiny holes and punctures and gaps and tears that are all over my body. That's what it feels like at least. It feels like the thorns of who I am have pierced through all over my body, leaving me torn and ripped and punctured and bleeding. And the poison is seeping through all the holes, is seeping out into the world. It's corroding my skin, it's staining my bedsheets and blankets and pillows, it's leaving inerasable marks that only I can ever see.

If my family knew who I truly was, if they knew what I truly was, then they would be disgusted, I'm sure. They would be disgusted, and shocked, and betrayed, they'd be so betrayed. They spent so much money on me. So much money and time and effort. So much care and consideration. All for me to turn out like this. All for me to turn out like this disgusting, insufferable mess of a human being. I let them down. I let them down. I owe them so, so much and I let them down.

They'd throw me out if they knew how I really felt. If they knew what I truly was. If they knew that the girl they tried to make into their daughter was so ungrateful, was so miserable despite everything that she has, despite everything that's been given to her, then they would definitely throw me out. And they'd have every right in the world to. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve my family and all the care that they have given to me.

I wonder what my biological family is like. I wonder what they would think of me. They probably do not care about me at all. They probably haven't given me a second thought after giving me away. What kind of parents wouldn't make sure that they could be there for their own child? What kinds of parents wouldn't raise their own child?

Of course, it's possible that they had to give me away because they were too mentally ill or too poor or too addicted or whatnot to take care of a child. It could be that they wanted to raise me, they wanted to support me, but they just couldn't. Even if that was the case though, it would still be their own fault. It would still be their own fault for giving me away. Because as my adopted mother said, everybody who is mentally ill or poor or addicted actually, secretly chooses it. So, according to her, my parents could have raised me if they wanted to. And she's right, of course. She's always right.

I hate my parents. But I love them. I love them but I hate them but I want them and I need them, despite the fact that they've let me down so much. And I love my mother, but there is a part of me that cannot trust her. I don't know why I can't trust her. She's been nothing but kind to me during my whole entire life. But something just feels off. I know I shouldn't be feeling like this. I know that there's no reason for me to be feeling like this. But something is off. Something is so very off.

It's probably just me. What's off is probably just me. Just my unending hunger. Just my desire for more, for more, for more than this perfectly happy, healthy, middle class life that I am living. I'm not a good person. I don't abide by the rules and the teachings that my mother is teaching me. I want to. Dear Universe I really, really want to. But I just can't. But I'm just not capable, no matter how hard I try.

Or maybe I am capable, and I'm just not trying hard enough. Perhaps this is all my fault. It probably is. I don't know whether it's worse to not want to be a good person hard enough or whether it's worse to not be capable of being a good person at all. But I know that I must surely be the worse one, whichever one is worst.

I am still crying. I haven't stopped crying. I have no idea how long I've been lying here. I'm supposed to be asleep. I was supposed to have gone to sleep long ago. I've probably been awake here for an hour. I never get enough sleep at night. Not that anybody knows this. But for some strange reason, I am never tired during the days. I must not need that much sleep I guess. But still, night is for sleeping. All the proper people sleep at night. I should be sleeping at night as well.

The house is so quiet. It's eerie. And I'm still crying.

———

"So how was school today?" our mother asks us, from behind the wheel of the eight seat SUV. It's a huge car. Plenty of space for all of us. There's screens on the back of each seat so that the kids in the back can watch movies and play games. But we're not going to do that in the fifteen minute drive to get home from school. The sun is setting behind us. My siblings and I are in the second row. It's idyllic. But I'm still drowning in my hidden misery.

"It was great," Riviera pipes up. She is playing with the end of her strawberry blond braid. Both the sisters have red hair, but my mother is blonde. They must have gotten their genes from the sperm donor. They were both conceived medically, but my mother didn't want to be pregnant again but she wanted a third child. I have raven black hair.

"I got invited to go to a party," Annabella speaks. "It's this Saturday, at Claira's house. Can I go?"

"Of course, my child. What are the rest of you guy's plans for the weekend?"

"I'm going to a movie with my friends," Riviera chimes. "It's the new Shadow Lady movie."

"Oh that should be fun. What are you doing, Zia?"

"I'm just staying home and studying. I'm behind on some homework."

"It's a good idea to study," my mother agrees. "It's how you can develop your mind, so that you can contribute more to society."

"We know, momma, we know." Annabella's voice has a hint of playful frustration in it.

"You girls are all very smart," our mother tells us. "You all have much to give to the world."

"Aww, thanks," I tell her, trying to put as much sincerity into my voice as I can.

"What are you guys learning about?"

"We're learning about batteries," Annabella explains, "and the way that electrons flow through batteries. It's really quite interesting. The metals that lose their electrons become ions and the ions that gain electrons become metals."

"We're learning about how to divide polynomials," Riviera starts. "It's actually pretty easy, but most people in my class find it hard. I don't know why."

"Well, I'm sure it's easy for you. I'm sure it's easy for both of you, is it not?"

"Yeah," Anabella replies, "it was okay last semester when I learned it."

"There is much knowledge and wisdom to be learned in school."

"Yes there is, mother." My voice is smooth and warm. The opposite of how I feel inside.

"Always pay close attention in school," she replies back. "School will teach you many many great wisdoms."

"Of course, mom," Riviera responds. "You see how well I'm doing."

"I do."

"School will help us make that cold hard cash," Anabella chirps.

"Absolutely," my mother agrees, "and that's definitely very important. What's also important though is the fact that school will increase your wisdom and knowledge. It will teach you how the world works. It will teach you why things are the way that they are. It will teach you how things work, how nature works, how the universe works, how people work. It will teach you how to go about your lives in a good and respectable way."

"You're right, mother," I tell her. "School has so many important messages. So many deep and hard-hitting messages."

"Yes, and you girls need to make sure to pay attention so that you can understand these messages and become truly enlightened."

I think about everything that I've learned in school. Math, science, history, grammar, how to analyze literary motifs, statistics. Atoms and neutrons and quarks and positrons. The body and all its failings. They were all interesting, doubtlessly. I have always found school interesting. But still. Still. I always felt like there might be something, something more. I always felt like there had to be something more than all these particles and molecules and metaphors. These had to be something deeper than that.

But I keep these thoughts to myself. I am probably only holding on to fantasy. I am definitely wrong. Of course there isn't anything miraculous and magical about the world. Of course all that we see is all that there is in this life, the only life. I just am stil immature. I'm still a child. I want something indescribable and inexpressible and altogether completely unreasonable. This is how a child thinks. This is what a child wants. I'm fifteen.

I need to grow up.

"What is the most interesting thing you guys have learned in school?" Annabella asks.

"Oh, probably that everything is made up of other, smaller things. Nothing is absolute except for space and time."

"Wow, that's very deep," I comment. "It's really almost mystical."

"The real world is more than mystical," Anabella states. "It's better than any magic."

"So it is," I agree. "So it is."

But is it really? I wonder. Is things being made of smaller things being made of smaller things being made of smaller things, until you get down to the waves, the ripples in space time itself, is that really better than magic? It has to be, after all, it's so cool. But despite being cool, there is this hollowness to it. There just, there has to be something more. Despite how cool this is, it's not enough. Except, it is enough. It has to be enough. It's all that there is.

This is making me feel hollow. This entire conversation is making me feel hollow. Yet I swallow down the hollowness. I don't know why it's here. It has no place. It doesn't deserve to be here. This is a perfectly normal conversation between a perfectly normal family. I swallow down the hollowness, and I swallow down my tears, and I try my best to not choke on either of these things. I always try my best, and I always fail. I wish so desperately that I could cry.

I tilt my head slightly to the side, I lean on the cool glass of the car window. The conversation flows on around me, and I weave my way through it as best as I can. I genuinely do love talking to people, including my family. It makes all the hurt hurt just a little bit less. And it makes my life just a little less storm-drenched, a little less shadow-covered. But this topic that we're talking about, dear Universe I hate it.

———

It's Sunday. We are working, all four of us. Cleaning the house. It's nice, how we all share our work and we all share our responsibility. I couldn't've asked for a better family if I tried. Though part of me still wants to try. I am dusting the many shelves and tables and cabinets that we have. It's really rather tedious work. But thankfully Annabella is helping me. We are working in tandem. It's nice, it really is.

But still I'm drowning. Still the poison is seeping through all parts of me.

But there is music playing in the background, from Annabella's phone which is on the ground. It is nice music. From her favourite playlist. It's nice music, but it is a bit too cheery for my taste. Too cheery, too smooth, too warm. I like music that is sad. I like music that is cold and rough and cut open jagged. Music that is desperate. Though truly no music can even come remotely close to brushing against the true depths of how I feel. All music pools on the very surface edges of me. So I don't really like music at all.

We carefully move all the decorations to one side of the carved wooden shelf that we are cleaning right now. This takes a bit of time, since there are so many decorations, both big an small. Colourful and flowing and made of so very many different types of material. It's beautiful, but I cannot take in the beauty of it. I cannot take in the beauty of any of it. I am too sad.

It's a pity really, my mother spent so much money on this house and I can't even appreciate most of it. She always spends so much on this family, she always gives so much to this family. But far too often I am far more ungrateful than I should be. I really am really rotten inside.

We work at an unhurried, almost leisurely pace, Annabella and I. Actually, all of us do. Because we're at home, we're not at work. No-one's forcing us to do this, no-one's paying us, we don't have to rush ourselves. And anyways, there are so very many delicate little pieces everywhere. It would be a bad idea to get careless. I mean, mother will probably understand if we break something, but still, I don't want to cause any problems for her.

We finish moving everything on this side of the shelf and we pass our dusters over the surface. Now we just have to do the same thing for the other side of the shelf and then we have to rearrange all the decorations. We arrange all the decorations differently each time we put them back. That's a clever idea Riviera came up with, and it always changes up the way that the house looks, it always gives a new feeling to the house. Since each shelf is rearranged every once in a while, there is always something different to look at. If only I could appreciate it.

"You're doing a great job," Annabella tells me, cheeriness in her voice.

"Thanks, Annabella, you are too."

"It's nice, working together, isn't it?"

"It is," I say, and it both is and isn't a lie. I appreciate her company, her companionship, her help. But my life is not nice. I don't know why.

"These shelves were so dusty when we started out. They look so much better now."

"They do," I agree. "This house is so big, it's inevitable that things will get dusty."

"Yes it is inevitable." There is a hint of tiredness in her voice. "There's always more work to do."

"Yes."

"Should we move on to the next piece?" she asks. We are done with this intricate, multilayered shelf. But there is a lot more furniture to get to. Not that we have to finish everything today. It would be very difficult to finish everything in one day. I don't want to push Annabella too hard.

"Sure. Where to now?"

"Let's go to the television stand on this floor."

"Sounds good."

There are a bunch of televisions in our house. One in the basement. One in the sunroofed attic upstairs. My mother and my two sisters both have televisions in their rooms. And there is the main television, which is as wide as I am tall, on the first floor. It's for all of us. But my mother asked me if I wanted a television as well. I told her that I didn't want one, since I didn't want to use up any more of her money than I had to. I wonder if I would be happier with a television. I don't really need one, but still, I'm the only one that doesn't have one.

We move on to the large shelf of the television, which is raised eye level to the couches. There's a lot of stuff to move around here as well. Moving stuff around always takes the most time. My sisters say they like it though, because they can focus on all the very pretty things we have around. But I don't feel the same way. I can't focus on all this stuff, ever. Like I said before, there's something strange about me, something deeply wrong with me.

"How are you girls doing?" our mother asks us.

"Doing fine, how about you?" Annabella replies.

"I'm doing alright myself. You guys have gotten a lot done. Good job."

"Thank you, mother," I answer.

"So I'm thinking this is enough work for today," our mother begins, "what do you girls think? Do you want to keep working?"

"I think we've had enough for today," Annabella answers. "What do you think, Zia?"

"Yeah, if you guys are thinking of wrapping up then I'm fine with that." My voice is a lot smoother than I how feel.

"I think we should go and eat dinner," our mother suggests. "I can order food for us. What restaurant to you guys want to eat from?"

———

Mother's eyes are darkened with worry, with a light sort of terror. It makes my heart freeze with hard ice in my chest. I don't know why she has gathered us all around her, sitting around the dining table despite there being no plates in front of us. Whatever it is, it cannot be good. We all look at her and at each other worriedly and solemnly.

"What is it, Mom?" Annabella asks.

"My girls," she begins, "I have terrible news to impart to you. The bank that has all of our savings, that has my paycheque for these next six months, this bank has been robbed. Now we have nothing. No money, no paycheque, nothing."

"But can't the bank give us back our money?" Riviera asks, concern and disbelief flowing through her voice.

"I'm afraid not," our mother replies. "The bank has been robbed to the ground. They have nothing left to give to anybody."

"What about the government?" Annabella suggests, "can't they help?"

"The government doesn't help normal people like us and you know this," our mother replies, fear laced into her words.

"But it's not fair," Riviera complains. "It's not our fault that our money got robbed. It's not our fault at all. Shouldn't the government be able to do something to help?"

"The government is corrupt and we all know it." Our mother's voice is laced with resignation. "They do not have any morals. They do not care about what is fair and what isn't. All they care about is their own money and their own power."

"That's really unfair, mother," I speak. "What will we do now?"

"That's what I've been meaning to talk to you girls about," our mother starts. "These next six months will be extra tight. We won't be able to do all the things that we normally do."

"Like what?" Riviera asks. "What won't we be able to do?"

"We won't be able to spend anything," our mother replies. "We won't be able to buy new clothes, we won't be able to buy new shoes, no new technology, no new toys, no new video games, no new decorations or blankets or anything."

"Will we still be able to watch movies and shows on our streaming services?" Annabella asks.

"No," our mother responds. "In fact, we have to stop our subscriptions to all of our streaming services. And we will have to stop our connection to the internet itself."

"No internet?" Riviera echoes, an incredulous tone in her voice.

"Yes, I'm afraid," our mother answers. "No internet, nothing fun."

"I'm so sorry that we're all going through all of this," I speak to my family. "I'm sure that we'll make it through this. I'm sure we'll make it to the other side of this." I keep my voice calm, smooth, solemn, calming. I look around at the eyes of my entire family. They are all shocked, all full of dread, all full of a horrible anticipation and a dreadful resignation. I feel as though I'm the only one who's even a little bit calm. I feel as though I'm the only one with her head on even a little bit straight. And that means that I have to be the one that calms everyone down and makes everyone feel a bit better.

"Will we really make it to the other side of this?" Riviera asks worriedly.

"We will, I promise," I assure her. I assure them all. They have to have hope. Through this shocking event, I have to make sure that my family has hope.

"We will be able to get through to the other side of this," our mother echoes. "We're a strong family. We're a close family. We're a tight-knit family. We'll get through this."

"So what else will we have to go without?" Annabella questions.

"We won't be able to go out either," our mother answers. "We won't be able to go out to movies, or dances. We won't be able to go to night clubs, or restaurants, or theatres or performances. We won't be able to go to the museum or the art gallery or to any concerts. We'll just have to stay home. And we'll have to try to conserve money and gas."

"What on earth?" Annabella's voice is incredulous. "How will we survive that? How will we be able to live through all of that? This is an atrocity!"

"I agree!" Riviera exclaims. "You can't expect us to live like this. It's simply far, far too much! How will we live without anything fun? How will we live when life is so boring?!"

"I know it will be hard, girls. I know. But we have to deal with this. We have to play the cards that we've been dealt."

"Exactly," I echo. "We still have our big, pretty house. And we still have all the nice things and the pretty furniture in our house. We can also take walks. We can see all the other pretty houses in the community of the forest and we can see their pretty gardens. We can walk through the forest. That's free. And I know how much you all like to do that." I try to keep a positive attitude. I try to help my sisters keep as positive of an attitude as they can. The Universe knows that we will need it.

"Exactly," our mother agrees. "And besides, this is only six months. We will switch to a different bank. And when my paycheque comes again in six months, we will have as much money as we used to have before. We'll be able to pay for everything we used to be able to pay for before."

"Ugh, fine," Annabella conceded.

"What about all our debts?" Riviera asks. "How will we pay those? Will we be able to hold off on paying those? What will we do?"

"We will be able to hold off on paying most of our debts, until my next payday comes," our mother explains. At this, my sisters smile. I force a smile myself. "I talked to the bank. They said that they would pause payments on most debts."

"That's great!" Annabella exclaims. "That was really nice of them."

"So it was," I agree.

"Don't get your hopes up too high," our mother cautions us, "there are still some debts we have to pay off. Like our mortgage for example. The bank says that we have to pay that, even though we lost all our money."

"What?!" Annabella exclaims, exasperation and anger in her voice. "How will we do that?! Our house is so big. Our mortgage is so big."

"What will happen if we don't pay?" Riviera asks.

"Then our house will be gone. And if our house is gone, we'll be out on the streets, and my job will be gone too. Let's hope that doesn't happen."

"It won't happen," I assure my family. "We'll find a way to stop that from happening."

"We will," our mother presses. "And we'll find a way to pay for our heating and water bills too. Those are also bills we're not allowed to put on hold."

"This is horrible!" Riviera exclaims. "This is so, so, so horrible!"

"It happens," our mother explains. "These things, they just happen sometimes."

"So what else will we have to go without?" Annabella asks. "Don't tell us that we won't be able to eat either."

"That's the thing," our mother begins, "we might not be able to eat. The Universe knows that I don't have the money for food right now. But we'll find a way. I promise."

"What?!" Annabella and Riviera both exclaim together in a messy, off-time unison. They both begin talking at the same time. No, talking is the wrong word. They both begin almost screaming at the same time, speaking so fast and in such a panicked way. Even my calm exterior cracks. How on earth are we supposed to get through this? How on earth are we supposed to go six months with no food?

I try to keep my face neutral. I try to not let the fear that I'm feeling show. I have to stay calm for my family. I have to stay collected for my family. I think that I'm the only one who is holding everyone together. And I have to hold everyone together. It does not matter how much pure dread I am feeling inside me. It doesn't matter that inside me, there is a terrible, terrible foreboding. A feeling that something is going to go terribly, terribly wrong. Even more terribly wrong than what is happening right now.

"Girls, girls, calm down!" our mother yells, voice laced with love and with worry and concern. Even now, her voice is loving. Even in the midst of so much stress, she loves her children. She is such an amazing mother, despite everything that I so very irrationally feel inside.

My sisters do calm down, and we are left looking at each other with dread and hopelessness. I force myself to smile, just a little thing, a placating thing that offers perhaps a small bit of comfort.

"Girls," our mother begins, "I will make sure that our family has all the food that it can have. I will make sure that our family has all the food that it needs. I will make sure that we can continue paying our mortgage and that we can continue paying our electricity bills and our water bills and our car payments. I will make sure that we have enough to get by. Don't worry girls, I will make sure. I will continue to provide for my family."

"How will we do that?" Riviera asks.

"I will ask our friends and our family for help. They will help us in paying our mortgage. They will help us in paying our electricity bills and water bills. They will help us in paying for our food. We have many friends, many family members. They will pull through for us. They will give what they can."

"But don't they have their own bills to pay?" Riviera asks.

"They do, but they will spare what they can," our mother answers.

"Will that be enough?" Annabella asks.

"It will be what it is," our mother answers. "Whatever help we can get from them, whatever money we can get from them, we will make it stretch as much as we can make it stretch and we will do as much with the money as we can. We will get by."

"We will get by," I echo. "I have faith in mother and in her ability to help her family and her ability to make things work. She's so smart, so brilliant, so resourceful. She'll help us though this, I'm sure. She can do it. If she can't do it then no-one can."

"Thank you, Zia. I appreciate your brave and resilient outlook to this situation." Our mother smiles at me. It's a tiny thing. A fleeting thing. But something that gives me strength anyways. Something that gives me courage anyways. But still, I cannot get rid of this feeling in my heart that something truly terrible is about to happen, something far more terrible than this situation that we've found ourselves in, something intimately tied to this situation that we've found ourselves in.

"What about the debts?" Annabella asks. "If we ask for help from our friends and family, won't that mean that we have a debt to them? How will we pay that back?"

"They have a debt to us," our mother answers. "We have helped them many times in the past, and they have amassed quite a bit of debt to us. They will surely consider our ask for help as a way to pay back the debt that they have, not a way to extract debt from us."

"You are truly wise, momma!" Riviera declares with a hint of joy in her voice. "You can truly get us out of the worst situations. You have truly thought this through!"

"Thank you, my daughter," our mother responds. "Now if you will excuse me, I have many, many phone calls to make."

———

It's been three weeks since that terrible, terrible family talk when my mother told us what a situation we were in. It has been three weeks, and the food in our fridges and pantries are almost all out. Our food is almost all out, but my mother has spent so many hours calling people and calling people and getting whatever help she could from them. She has called everyone we know so far, and gotten many pledges of support. Let's just hope that it's enough.

It's Saturday now. It's Saturday, and my sisters are off at friends' houses, trying to make our food stretch by partaking in theirs. I don't really have any close friends, so I'm just sitting on the couch. It's a nice couch. It's a soft couch. It's a soft and nice couch and I kind of like sitting here, just thinking my thoughts.

As always, my thoughts run melancholy. My emotions run melancholy. Everything inside me runs melancholy, and there is very little that I can do about that, despite all my hardest efforts. But still, I don't feel as guilty for feeling sad right now, not as much as I usually do. Because the Universe knows that I have plenty good reason to be sad right now. We all do.

"Zia," my mother speaks to me, grabbing onto my forearm and leading me away to my room, "I need to talk to you."

She doesn't grab me like this very often. Her voice is urgent, is almost furtive, and her eyes are darkened. Her whole expression is darkened. Fear spikes in my heart. What is about to happen right now? It can surely be nothing good. But my mother wouldn't hurt me, would she? Of course she wouldn't hurt me. My mind is sure, but my guilty, traitorous heart is not so sure.

"What is it, mother?" I ask her, voice soft and conceding.

"I have to talk to you about our financial situation," she presses. "I'm sure you know how much trouble we're in."

"I do. Why?" This is not looking good. Is my family in more trouble than I thought? What are we going to do about this? Why is she telling only me? What can I do about this?

"Well, I talked to our friends and family. They are supporting us, but they do not have the money to support us fully."

"Oh no." My eyes go wide. "What will we do now?"

"That's what I meant to talk to you about," she starts. "We have enough money to pay off the mortgage, and that comes first. Because without the mortgage we'll be out on the street and I won't have a job."

"That's good."

"And we have enough money for food. But here's the thing, we don't have enough food for everyone."

"Oh no. What will we do?"

"I can feed your sisters. But I can't feed you more than one meal a day. You will have to eat your lunch at school and then just wait after you come home. Just wait for these few months to be over."

"Um ... excuse me?" I cannot believe what my own mother is saying.

"You will have to eat one meal a day, okay?"

"Okay." I reply. And really, it's the only thing that I can say. It's the only way I can reply. Because she's my mother. She's given me so much. How else could I possibly reply to her?

"You can do that, right? For your sisters and for me? So that we have enough to eat?" Her voice is almost pleading, but it also has a firm, pressing quality to it. And as always, I cannot deny her. I cannot deny her at all. Not even a bit.

"Of course, mother."

"I knew you would answer in this way. I knew that you would understand. You're a good girl. A righteous girl. You make the right decisions and do what is proper and decent and just."

"But mother ..." I begin.

"What is it, child?"

"If I said no, then what would you have done?"

"Then I still couldn't have given you food, I'm sorry. I have to make sure your two sisters get enough food."

I don't quite understand why she's singling me out to be the one that starves. I don't quite understand, but at the same time I do understand it. I understand it in the back of my mind, in the small, rebellious part of my heart that has been plaguing me since I was young. I almost cannot believe what's going on. But my worst fears are coming true.

"Mother," I begin, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

"What is it, my girl?"

"Why am I the one that has to go hungry?" I know I am not really supposed to ask this question. I know I am not really allowed to ask this question. I know I am only allowed to go along with what my mother wants. But I cannot help but to ask it anyways. I just ... I just have to know why.

"You know about debts and owing people, right?" There is a bit of forced, fake brightness in her voice. "You know that you must pay back the people who have helped you, right?"

"Yes, mother."

"We'll this is your way to pay me back, to pay this family back, for all that we have helped you over the years. See, we took you in and fed you and clothed you and sheltered you, and you need to pay us back for all that. You need to pay us back by making a sacrifice."

"Okay, mother."

"You're a good girl. I know that you can make sacrifices for what is good and right. And I know that you can pay back your debts."

This makes sense. What she's saying makes sense. She's not withholding food from me because she doesn't love me. She's not starving me because she doesn't love me. She does love me. She's just withholding food from me because it is the good, right, and just thing to do. She's only doing it because it's what's moral and proper to do. She's just following her morals, not her heart. And of course, she has to follow her morals, not her heart. She still loves me in her heart. She still does. But still ...

"Why do I owe you a debt and my sisters don't? You raised them as well." I know I am asking too many questions. I shouldn't be asking so many questions. I silently curse my traitorous mouth.

"I brought your sisters into the world," my mother explains. "And thus it is my job to take care of them and provide for them and raise them. It is not a debt that they're procuring, because it is simply my responsibility to take care of them, it is not something kind and generous that I am doing for them that I did not have to do.

"You on the other hand though, I didn't bring you into this world. You are not someone I have to have responsibility towards. And yet I took you in anyways. And yet I provided for you and helped you and fed you and sheltered you and raised you anyways, even though I didn't have to. And therefore everything I did for you was an act of kindness. An act of kindness that you have to repay somehow. You owe it to us. We had no obligation to give you a home, and yet we did. In fact, without me taking care of you when you were weak and helpless and defenceless, you might have died. And so you owe us your life."

"I understand," I tell my mother. But do I truly understand? I should understand. Everything that she said made perfect sense. She had to take care of my sisters. But she didn't have to take care of me. And so I absolutely do owe her, don't I? She's right. Of course she's right. She's wise and caring and kind and just, and of course she's always right.

"I'm glad you understand, my girl," my mother tells me. She smiles fondly at me, and I smile back at her. I love her smiles.

She leaves me in my room, and closes the door behind her. I hear the lock clicking shut from the outside, and my heart skips a beat in fear. I quickly calm myself down though, telling myself that my mother would of course have a good reason for locking the door. Of course she would. She has a good reason for all that she does. And the only reason that I am locked in is because I have a good reason to be.

I go to my soft bed, and I curl up. I hug my knees to my chest and lie against the pillow, on my side, looking at the forest outside the window. The trees are beautiful. They have always been beautiful. They try to soothe my soul as much as they can, and I wish they could succeed more than they are. But still, I am deeply thankful for these trees from the very centre of my core.

There is no-one here right now, so I allow myself to cry. I can allow myself to cry. And I can allow myself to miss the things that I have no right to miss.

My mother is right. She's so very right. She's very smart and wise and knowledgeable and learned. She is a pillar in the community, helping all the people around her. And she has so much knowledge from so many places. She knows very well how the world works and what each person's place is within it. She knows very well what roles we are all supposed to play and how we can all play these roles. She knows very well what roles I'm supposed to play and how I can play these roles. She knows what my place is and I must believe her, I must learn from her. I must believe her and I must learn from her so that I too know what my place in the world is and how to play the role that I am supposed to play, that I am obliged to play.

She's right. She didn't have to take me in. She didn't have to take care of me and protect me. And yet she did. She did take care of me and protect me for so long. She took care of me so well. And she will take care of me again once this emergency is over. She did not have to do any of this. She was not obliged to do any of this. And yet she did it anyways. She did it anyways out of the kindness of her heart because she is just such a kind person, and she is raising her children as well to be such kind people.

She didn't raise my sisters out of the kindness of her heart. She raised them because she was obliged to. Because she was obliged to take care of them. Because she was obliged to love them. A mother is obliged to love the babies that come out of her body. A mother cannot help but to love the babies that come out of her body. Annabella and Riviera are children that she is compelled to love, that she is obliged to love. So her loving them isn't a great act of kindness, it is simply expected.

Yet her love for me is not simply expected. It is something she chose to bestow upon me. And so I owe her. I owe it to her to help her. I owe it to her to help her family. I owe her in a way that my sisters don't. And so I am obligated to make sacrifices for this family, to go hungry for this family, so that my sisters can eat. Because they are not beholden to this family in the way that I am. They do not owe my mother in the way that I do.

So I curl in on myself tighter and I cry. For some strange, unfathonable reason, I feel so very betrayed. I cannot stop feeling this way.

———

I come home from school. It's been two months since that fateful day when my mother took me to my room and told me what I would have to do. It's been two months, and I have felt myself getting weaker and weaker and weaker. I don't know how I'll be able to hold on these many long months. I don't know how I'll be able to live through it. But I have to live through it. And so I force myself on.

I get to my room, being followed by my mother.

"How was school today?" she asks me with concern dripping through her voice. She loves me. Even now, when she's been forced to make such a horrible decision, she loves me. Yet why can I not make myself believe this?

"It was okay," I reply, exhaustion dripping through my voice. School wasn't actually okay. I was so, so hungry the whole time. As I always am.

"That's good." She closes the door, and I hear the telltale click of the lock.

I've mostly been locked in my room these past two months. It makes sense. I understand that I probably wouldn't be able to stop myself from going to the fridge if I could, so locking the door just ensures that I can't do that. It just ensures that I can't steal food.

I miss being able to interact with my family. I miss it so, so very much. I didn't know that I would miss it so much. I'm all alone now. There's no-one with me. No-one to share my time with. No-one to share my experiences with. No-one to listen to and talk to and interact with. Just me, alone with my thoughts in my own room in a house that doesn't feel like it's mine, that has never felt like it was mine.

Hunger claws in my gut like a vicious, hungry beast with sharp teeth and sharp claws. It bites and scratches at all my insides. My stomach hurts so much, my ribs hurt so much, my chest cavity hurts so much. My arms and legs hurt. My head feels light and dizzy. It all hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts unbearably and I feel like screaming in pain yet I am far too weak to scream. Not that it would make much of a difference anyways. All that would happen is that I would get in trouble.

I'm helpless. I'm helpless. I'm locked in this room and I'm helpless and I can't get out. I'm trapped. I'm trapped and there's nothing I can do. All I can do is claw desperately at my mind for an escape, for a release, for a relief and a salvation that I know is not coming. The beast inside of me and me myself are both trapped, are both hungering, are both begging to be let out. But the beast in me can eat my insides. I cannot.

Though actually, I am eating myself. My body has run out of fat to digest into carbohydrates, probably. It's probably digesting my muscles and my organs and my epithelial tissue now. Burning through my cells to extract precious, precious energy. A process which has been evolved into my bloodline over millions of years.

See, it's natural, what is happening to me. My hunger is natural. It is something that my body is ready for. Something that my body has been ready for for so many years. The biological processes that guide starvation are processes that have existed for eons. They are processes that have been building and developing within us since we were just single cells, since we were just prokaryotes. So, it's okay to starve sometimes. There is nothing wrong with starving sometimes.

And anyways, because I'm starving, that means that my mother and my sisters can eat. My sisters, especially, can eat. They need to be able to eat. They need to be able to get the calories they need. I love them. I really do love them a lot. And I need to do what I can do in order to help them. If that means not eating, then so be it. I will bear it, no matter what it takes from me, no matter how much it hurts.

But part of me doesn't love my family. Part of me holds it against them, what they are doing to me. Part of me is deeply, deeply betrayed. It is rueful, jealous, bitter. I am rueful, jealous, bitter. I am full of hatred and bitterness and part of me wants to get revenge, get revenge, get revenge for what they've put me through.

But I cannot get revenge. I am simply one person with no money, no power, no property, no abilities, no resources, no support, no help. There is nothing I can do about my situation. I'm a teenaged girl locked in a room, all by myself. There is nothing I can do. Perhaps this is why my mother was able to do this to me. Because she knew I was weaker than her. She knew I couldn't fight back.

But I feel so guilty for hating my family. I feel so guilty for wanting revenge. This simply proves that I am rotten inside. It simply proves that I am unholy, ungrateful, unworthy. I know that the good and right thing for me to do would be to be strong and silently bear the burden of my situation. But for some reason I am finding myself unable to do that. I am finding myself unable to do what I know is good and right. How on earth could I be so selfish? This just proves that I don't actually deserve to eat.

I lie in my bed, which is what I have found myself doing so very often, and I cry. I think about reading a book to try to take my mind away from the hunger. I think about it, but I know it won't work. I've tried reading before. I've tried thinking other thoughts and getting my mind off of the hunger. Nothing has worked. All the time, my emotions are consumed by the all-consuming ache of hunger. Even when my mind is distracted, it doesn't matter that my mind is distracted because my heart isn't.

It's all-consuming. It consumes every part of me, taking more and more and more until there is nothing left. All I am is a constant, insatiable need, an overarching and overwhelming ache. I am burning, burning, burning. Every part of me is burning. And yet at the same time I am freezing, freezing, freezing. Every part of me is freezing. The pain is a screaming sort of pain, and I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it. But bear it I must.

And, throughout this whole time, my emotional misery has not subsided. I'm still as sad as I was before. As torn and ripped and poisoned. The poison is still seeping through me. And my mind and my heart are swept away in the poison storm. Except now, along with the emotional pain, there is also physical pain. There is physical pain that is just as strong as the emotional pain and the two types of pain are interlaced throughout each other. As two sides of the same coin.

I breathe. And the breath comes ragged and jagged. Everything inside me is ragged and jagged. Everything about me is ragged and jagged. It has been for a long, long while. As long as I can remember. But it's worse now.

Now the parts of my mind that I could suppress somewhat before are more bold and loud than they ever have been. They tell me that I am not loved, I am not loved, I am not loved. I know that I'm loved, that I must be loved. But the feeling that I am not overcomes me. The feeling that no one in the universe truly cares for me overcomes me and overwhelms me. And I try so very very hard to not listen to it. But there is nothing that I can do but for listening to it. Despite all my best efforts. But still, I tell myself that I am wrong, I am wrong, I am wrong. I tell myself that I am loved. Now if only I could believe myself.

The hunger was terrible the first day. The first day when I had no food. When I had only one meal that day. The first day I starved. It was so terrible, so painful, so unbearable. It was such violence. Violence on my body, violence on my mind, violence on my heart, violence on my soul. There was so much violence and there was so much devastation. I did not think it could possibly get worse.

But get worse it did. Every day that I went without food, the pain built up and built up and built up. It was more unbearable each day. And each day all I could do was bear it. And each day I was pushed further and further and further past the limits of what my body could tolerate. Each day I was pushed further past the limits of what I though myself capable of tolerating.

It was and still is a small kindness that I was used to unbearable pain my whole life, despite that pain being not quite as physical. It was still physical. My past emotional pain, the pain that I've been dealing with my whole life, it still had a physical aspect to it. It just wasn't as ingrainedly physical as this hunger. Though of course the hunger affects my heart and my mind as well. Sadness and hunger are both deeply physical, they are both deeply emotional, they are both deeply unbearable.

I went to school each day and nobody noticed. Nobody notices what I'm going through. I'm always quiet. I'm always subdued. So my exhaustion is not really noticed. In a way I was always exhausted anyways. A couple of teachers asked me why I had lost so much weight. I guess they noticed. I simply told them that I wasn't as hungry as I used to be. A bold faced lie. But one they believed. They didn't pursue it any further. They simply let me be. So I ate my lunch at school and I went back home and got locked in my room.

Which is where I am now, lying in my soft bed, crying.

I think about screaming, yelling, banging against the door, begging for help and food and attention. But I know that it will be pointless. I know that no help will come. It will just be a waste of energy. And I have no energy to waste. I think about what could happen if I tried to fight my mother, if I tried to run to the fridge and get food before she could lock me in my room. I know that that would be pointless as well. In my weakened state, she is much stronger than me. And I couldn't fight my mother and my sisters at the same time anyways.

There is nothing I can do about my situation. There is literally nothing that I can do.

Not that I should struggle. Not that I should fight. My mother sacrificed so much to take care of me. She gave so much to take care of me. I owe it to her to sacrifice for her back. I know this. I know this, and I tell myself this, again and again and again. But it doesn't stop the pain. Actually, it just makes the pain so much worse. It makes all the pain so much worse in all its aspects. I tell myself that I shouldn't struggle against this, but each and every day that I go hungry, the struggling and desperate part of my mind gets louder and louder, harder and harder to ignore.

I don't know what will happen when I can't ignore it any longer.

———

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I have been here for three months. I have starved myself, I have been starved for three months. And I'm going to die. Desperation is banging its fists on my insides. Desperation is screaming its throat raw in every part inside me. Hunger gnaws at my bones, gnaws at my gut, gnaws at my flesh and at my blood. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this anymore.

My mind is screaming. Screaming at me to stop this. My mind is screaming at me to make this stop. Except I can't. I can't make this stop. I don't have that kind of power. I don't have any power. All I can do is let this happen to me, no matter how desperate, no matter how infuriated I am. And I am going to die. I just know that I'm going to die.

Death looms over me. It watches everything that I do. It is like a shadow over me. It is like my shadow, trailing behind my each and every thought, my each and every action. It is a dreadful presence, constantly pressing upon my mind, constantly pressing upon my heart. Death is my only companion these days, and I do not know whether I am grateful for this companion or not. I do not know whether I am grateful for this pressing presence or not.

Part of me wants to die. Part of me wants to just let this all go. To let this jagged, tearing, grating existence go. The Universe knows that there is nothing good about life. The Universe knows that there's nothing worthwhile in existing. I feel guilty for thinking this, because I know this train of thought is not really allowed. But still, it's true, it's true, it's true. And no amount of judgement will stop it from being so horribly, undeniably true,

But despite all this, despite how hard my life is, how hard it's always been, I just cannot bear to let my life go. There is something inside me, stronger than a thousand hurricanes, that wants to live, that wants so desperately to live. It won't let me let go of this life, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much I try. I don't know where this part of me came from. I don't know if it's new or if it's always been there. But it feels older than anything ever has felt before. It feels older than I am. It feels ancient.

The part of me that wants to live tells me that I need to get out of here, I need to get out of here, it doesn't matter how, but I need to get out of here. I have to find a way to leave this place. I have to find a way to get some food. No matter what it will cost me. No matter who I will end up having to betray. No matter what I will end up having to do.

But no, I can't think that. I can't let myself think that. I have to be loyal to my family. I have to be loyal to the people who took me in and took care of me and raised me. That means I have to listen to my mother and I have to do what she told me and I have to make the sacrifices she has called upon me to make. I owe her that much. I owe them all that much. No matter how unbearably much all of this hurts, no matter what I feel in my body and in my heart and in my mind and in my soul.

But as I am lying here, in my bed, cold despite the fact that it's summer, cold despite the fact that I'm under many blankets, I ache. I ache so much. My entire body aches, but it's more, it's so much more than just my body. My entire soul aches, my mind aches, my heart aches, every part of me aches. It's as if I have thousands of clawing nails in my chest, in my stomach, in my abdomen, in my back. It's as if I am being torn apart, being disintegrated from the inside out. It's as if there is fire in my limbs, fire in my core, fire all over me that is slowly, slowly burning me away.

I feel feint and weak and lightheaded and dizzy. I am so dizzy. So, so very dizzy. It's as if I am on the verge of unconsciousness. Though I suppose that I am. I'm not just of the verge of unconsciousness, I'm on the verge of death. I'm about to die. I'm about to die. It takes so much effort and concentration to keep myself here. It takes so much effort and concentration to keep myself holding onto my consciousness and my life. It's exhausting. So exhausting. I'm exhausted. So exhausted.

I almost want to give in. I almost want to let go of my tentative hold on life. I almost want to let death take me. And so I do. I do let go. My mind is falling, falling, falling. My entire consciousness is falling, falling, falling. This is liberation. It's freedom.

I bolt upright in bed, using a heaving bellow of energy I didn't know I had. I feel fear. I feel fear. I feel an incredible surge of fear pulsing through my body, blaring through my mind, ripping through my soul. All I can feel is this fear. I can't let myself die. I can't let myself die. I can't let myself die. I don't know why. Dying would honestly be better. But I can't let myself do that.

I want to die, I want to die, I so very much want to die. But the feeling that pushes through my body and pulls me to action is my desire to live. And my desire to live might not be stronger than my desire to die, but it's the desire that gives me energy, it's the desire that forces my actions, it's the desire that makes me act. It makes me act and no other action can push through my mind and manifest as action. I need to live.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I'll die if I don't get out of here. They're trying to kill me. They're trying to kill me. It doesn't make sense why they're trying to kill me, but at the same time, it makes perfect sense. I'm not really a part of this family. I'm not really a part of these people. If they had to sacrifice anyone, they'd choose me. But it doesn't matter what the reason is. I won't let them do this.

I won't let them, I won't let them, I won't let them. They won't win, they won't win, they won't win. I can't let them win. But I wonder, will I lose?

I have to think of a plan to get out of here now. I have to get out of here now. Out of this locked room. Our of this false, sugary, heartless house. Out of this piece of land and maybe even out of this community. I have to get out, I have to get out, I have to get out. If I stay here then that will be it, I will be done. But if I get out, then that will be rebellion. That will be rebellion, that will be revolution, it will be mutually assured destruction. And I don't care. I don't care if I destroy myself. As long as I bring the plans of my not mother and my not sisters with me.

I step on my hard wooden desk. The window is as big as I am. I open the window to my room, and then step out onto the window sill, holding the edges of the frame in both hands. There is a large aspen tree brushing against the window. I reach out to grab it, and then climb it down. It feels like nothing I have ever felt before, being up in this tree. It feels like protection, like love, like comfort, like care.

The last ten feet or so I have to jump down, there are no tree branches here, only trunk. I feel fear wash over me. But I realize that if I don't jump, I will quite literally die in this tree, on my not mother's land. And so I do jump. And I hit the ground and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts so much. My arms and legs ache overwhelmingly, and I feel as if I have died.

But I haven't. I haven't died. And I won't die. Not if this desperation inside me has anything to say about it. I know that I have to get up. The thing that I have to do next is to get up and start walking. So, despite how weak and dizzy I am, despite how smothered and aching I am, I have to get up and I have to use the last remaining bits of my energy to start walking.

The last remaining bits of my energy. The last remaining bits of my energy. I know right now that my energy is slipping through my fingers. I know right now that I have barely any energy left. I don't know where my ability to move is even coming from at this point, but the point still stands that I have this ability. I have this ability still and I have to use it. I have to use it in order to get myself out of here.

So I push myself up. And I pray. I don't know who I pray to. All the gods of my past have come from the mouth of my not mother. All the gods of my past have been the gods that she believed in. And I cannot believe in those same gods. Not after everything she has done to me. Not after everything she has done to me year after year after year after year, for all of my life. But I know. I know there are better gods out there. I know there are deeper gods out there. Gods which she doesn't know about and which she will never understand. I don't know who they are, but I pray to them. I pray to them to give me strength and help me.

I start walk through the thick woods outside my bedroom window. The thick woods that are cover, for now. The woods that are help for now. The woods are strength. They have always been strength, and right now the strength they give me is pressing into me, is filling me with courage, is filling me with hope. The trees cover me, the shrubs and bushes cover me, the herbs and grasses cover me. The mosses and lichens cover me. And they all conceal my form, and give me their power, as I walk towards the thin, twisting road that connects the house to the main road.

I continue walking towards the end of the road connecting my mother's property to the main road. I do not get on this road, because I do not want to be seen. Instead, I follow the road, hiding in the tree cover beside it, in the thick tapestry of tall forest that will cover me. I thank the trees for their help, and I hear them thank me back. For what purpose I do not know why. They cover me. They protect me. They hide me from prying eyes. They are alive. They are alive. They are so very alive and they give me life. And for that I am awestruck.

I keep walking. It is beyond arduous, the simple act of walking. It is nearly impossible. But I push myself on. I push myself on and I push myself on and I push myself on. Through my exhaustion. Through my aching. Through everything inside me that is screaming at me to lay down and die. The part of me that is screaming at me to go on and live is more powerful. And so, even though each step requires tremendous effort, even though each step is an ache, each step is a feat of incredible strength, and each step requires immeasurable force, I go on.

I finally reach the place where the main road connects to the property. I am away from the little town that exists in the trees. I am on the highway now. I will miss the forest dearly but I won't miss the people who live in it. It felt like it took forever getting here. But here I am, and the next part of my journey is complete. I slip through the gate and look out at the road.

I have two choices in front of me now. I could go southwest to the city. Or I could go northeast to the highway. I think for a moment.

If I go to the city, it will be easier for me to find something to eat, some source of food, some helpful person, anything at all. It will be easier for me to beg or even dumpster dive for food. But, they'll all be expecting me to go to the city. When my mother inevitably calls the police, they will all think that I went to the city, for the aforementioned reasons. So they will search the city, not the highway. And if I take the highway, there's a lower chance of me being found. But still, there are a lot more places to hide in the city. There are many more streets, and there are many more alleys and nooks and crannies. In the highway, there is only one stretch of road.

I make a decision. I'll go to the city. Yes, maybe I'll be found. But maybe I'll find a way to live. My chances are much higher there. And there aren't really any good options. I just have to do what is the best option.

This is so unfair. It's so unfair that I have to be doing this. It's so unfair that I have to leave my whole life behind. I have to leave my home behind. And yet, yet my whole life has never truly been mine. And my home had never truly been mine either. It has only been the place I was forced to stay in, back when I didn't know any better and couldn't question what I'd been taught. I have never had a home. I have never had a life. I had only had survival and now I might not even have that. It's unfair. It's unfair. It's so very unfair.

I start crying. I know I'm wasting energy. I know I'm wasting water. But I can't help myself. It's all so very unfair, and the emotions inside me are swirling and whirling and completely maddening. I have to get these emotions out somehow. I have to communicate what I'm feeling somehow, even if I'm just communicating with the rows and rows of trees that line the road as it stretches towards the city.

I never had a way to communicate what I was feeling inside. I never had a way to communicate that, and I always had to keep it to myself. I always had to keep everything to myself. And that's so unfair. That is so deeply unfair. And I have to, I just have to let it out now. I have to tell the trees. I have to tell the grass, I have to tell the wind, I have to tell the sun, I have to tell the earth, I have to tell the sky.

The sun shines bright up above me and there are no clouds to be seen. And yet I'm so cold. I'm so cold. I'm so very deeply cold.

Yet despite that, the sky is blue above me. It is bright. It is brilliant. It is alive. And it gives me some of its energy, it gives me some of its vitality, it gives me some of its spirit, it gives me some of its life. The earth is firm and strong and full of life beneath me. It is life. It is death. It is life and death together as one. And it holds me. It supports me. It gives me strength. The sun is a fire and it fuels the fire inside me. It keeps the fire that is in me alive, so that I can stay alive. Each and every breath that I take connects me with the world, it connects me with the spirit of life that is in all of nature. And it is glorious, glorious, so much more glorious than anything I have ever experienced before.

I cry from the happiness just as much as I cry from the pain. I cry from the happiness that comes with the fact that this world loves me, this world loves me, this world loves me. The earth and the air and the fire and the water and the sun and the moon all love me, just as much, just as strongly, just as deeply as they love anyone else. And I realize this now. And, on the brink of death, I feel more alive than I have ever been.

And yet that doesn't change the fact that I have no shelter. I have no shelter. I have no food. I don't even have a jacket. I don't know how I'll get food, or shelter or warm clothes or anything else. I don't know how I'll get my needs met. I don't know how I'll crawl back from the brink of death. And all of that is unfair, it's unfair, it's so unfair. And that is part of what makes me cry. Because I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing to give anyone in exchange for food, for resources, for life.

But still, I find myself able to think about the injustices that plague me. I find myself able to call out the fact that I have nothing, even if it's in the silence of my mind. I find myself able to tell myself that I deserve equality, I deserve help, I deserve everything I need, I deserve life. I wonder why I'm able to tell myself this. Perhaps because I have come to the realization that I need to protect myself and provide for myself if I am to stay alive. Perhaps because I am desperate to stay alive, and I know that the only way I can do that is if I realize that I deserve life.

And yet I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I'm so tired. But, crying, I push myself to continue on through the pain and through the ardour and through the exhaustion.

In front of me a large truck is lumbering by. But, strangely enough, instead of going on down the road, it pulls over to the shoulder of the road, the strip of pavement that no vehicles can drive on. The truck pulls over a few yards in front of me. I wonder why, I know it's none of my business, but I can't help but to be curious.

A man gets out from the truck, and climbs down. His hair is dark like mine. His eyes are dark too. He looks straight at me, and starts coming towards me. Am I about to get kidnapped? Maybe. Fear pierces through my chest. What if he comes to capture me? I can't fight him off. I can't do anything. I'll just have to let him take me to wherever he takes me to. Dear universe, why does my life have to keep getting worse and worse?

The man stops a few paces away from me. He drops to his knees in front of me, and that makes him seem much less intimidating. The fear in my heart gets replaced by confusion.

"Are you crying?" he asks me with a soft and kind voice.

I nod my head.

"Okay. Do you want to come with me? I can drive you to the city, if that's where you're going. It's really not safe to be walking by the side of the highway like this."

I think about his offer. It will save me a lot of energy, if he drives me to the city. And I know that energy is very precious to me right now. He doesn't seem to be a dangerous man. He has a kind face and kind eyes. There is a deep sadness behind his eyes. There is a deep hope as well. I think I'm safe with him. And a free ride is probably the nicest offer I'm going to get in my life.

"Okay," I speak.

He holds my hand as we go to the truck. It's a rather large truck. He helps me to get on, into the passenger side, before getting on himself into the driver side. It's not much warmer in the truck than it is out in the road, but I get to sit down and lean against the seat and relax. And, I feel like I'll never be able to get up again, I am so deeply tired.

"My name is Shandro," the man tells me, as we drive in the direction of the city. "What's your name?"

"Zia," I tell him. "Or at least, that's what everybody calls me."

"It's great to meet you, Zia."

"It's great to meet you too."

"If you don't mind me asking, are you okay? You were walking by the side of the road, and you look so very thin."

"I ..." I wonder if I should answer honestly. I wonder if he'll turn me in if he knows. "I haven't been eating nearly enough for almost three months," I finally decide to say, truthfully.

"Almost three months? That's absolutely horrible, child. You're going to die." He reaches down and pulls out a small reusable grocery bag. "There's food in here. Tomato soup and a few sandwiches and chocolate milk. Eat it all. Please. I can't have you die."

"Isn't it your food, though?" I ask him. I will not take advantage of Shandro's generosity.

"Don't you need it?"

"I can go a few meals without eating," he replies to me, "you are going to die. You need to eat right now. Please, please eat."

"Thank you so much!" I exclaim, beyond myself in gratitude. I unscrew the lid for the flask of tomato soup and start eating it by the spoonful. I make sure to pace myself so that I don't go too fast, so that I can keep all of this precious food inside my body.

"If you don't mind me asking," he begins, "where are you going?"

"I'm running away from my home." I decide to tell him the truth. "My family, well, they're not really my family, they were starving me."

"Oh my gods, that's deeply horrible," Shandro exclaims. "I'm glad you escaped."

"You won't turn me in, will you?"

"Of course not. Do you have anywhere to go, though?"

"No." I deeply wish I could give him a different answer. But I can't.

"You could come live with me, if you wanted," he offers. "I'm on the road a lot, since I'm a truck driver. But my wife, she's a librarian, she can take care of you. We would treat you well, I promise."

"Really?" I cannot believe what I'm hearing. "But there's no way for me to make it up to you. I have nothing to pay you back with."

"It's okay," he responds. "We don't want anything in return. We don't want anything. We just want to make sure that you're okay, and that you have a home and food and people to take care of you."

"Thank you so much!"

"Think nothing of it. It's the least we could do. Anyways, we're in the city now. I can stop to get you some food. We have a few days of journey ahead of us and you need to eat and rebuild your body."

"Are you going to get some food for yourself, too?"

"I don't have the money to, right now. I didn't think to bring that much money. But I'll be fine. You're going to die if you don't eat. It's much more important that you eat."

"Are you sure?" I cannot believe what he is saying. Why would he put me, a stranger who he just met, above his own well-being? Why would he put my needs over his? Especially after he knows that there's nothing I could give him?

"Yes." His voice is pressing and absolutely certain, and I cannot say no to that.

I finish the tomato soup and bite into the sandwich. I am tired, so very tired. But it feels as if, for the first time that I can even remember, I am able to actually and truly rest.

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

I'm twelve years old. I shouldn't be working in a factory. But here I am. Here I am with all the other twelve-year-olds, with all the people older than that, with people younger than me. There are even seven-year-olds here. They should be out playing. They should be having fun. But they need to make money so that they can eat, so that their families can eat, so that the whole community can eat. I remember when I was seven. How deafening and arduous the process of being at work was.

The seven-year-olds should be at school. I should be at school. But it's not like any of us could afford that luxury. Though I suppose it's not a luxury.

I have no idea how long I've been working for. My mind screams and my soul bleeds and everything in my world is whittled down to the sharp, piercing knife point of the present. I have to do it perfectly. I have to do everything perfectly. There is no room for any mistakes, not even small ones. If I make even the tiniest of mistakes, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, my people starve.

Not that we aren't starving anyways.

I keep my eyes down on my work. And I keep my whole mind, my whole being, straining against my desires and pushing me forwards. Forwards, forwards, forwards. I do not have even a moment to take a breath. I do not have even a moment to rest. Not the smallest, tiniest, slightest of rests. I have to keep on going. Through all the pain, physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.

I sink each fabric in the glaring, screaming blue of the fabric dye in a vat in front of me. Fabric after fabric after fabric after fabric. Again and again and again and again. Until I am absolutely dizzy with it. I am already dizzy with the fumes coming off of the dye. I am dizzy and my head hurts from the noxious, poisonous smells.

I have to then swirl each piece of fabric in the fluid using my ladle. This part is a lot more technically difficult than I first thought it would be, since I have to make sure that all parts of each piece of fabric is getting soaked in the dye. I have to swirl it around fast, faster than humanly imaginable, because I have to get through all my gargantuas workload, a workload that never lets up no matter how inhumanly hard I work.

After the swirling, I have to take the fabrics out and go hang them on the drying rack, a contraption of curved metal beams with a drainage grate under it. This rack is enormous, and it is constantly bathed in dry air. This is the part that I hate the most. I have to hold the piece of fabric, the piece of fabric filled with stinging, toxic liquid, in my own hands. Sure, I'm wearing gloves, but the gloves are meagre protection as the dye seeps through them and makes my hands sting and burn in pain. I have to then walk, well actually, practically run, to the drying rack and place my load up absolutely perfectly.

My hands are always burning, always stinging, always in horrific pain throughout my whole time working. I'm not allowed to go to the one bathroom that we have in the building, that is far away, in order to wash them. It would take far too much time to walk there, not to mention it wouldn't even help if my hands are just going to get burned again the very next fabric that I have to hang up. Time is money. Literally. It's a meagre little bit of money for me and it's a whole lot of money for the people who own this factory.

I'm barely even allowed to go to the bathroom when I actually need to go to the bathroom. Because there aren't enough bathrooms. Because it's too far away. Because I have to work, work, work and work. I don't drink water, and I end up being so overheated and dehydrated, and that makes my head throb even more, makes my whole body strain. But it's not like I have a choice. This is the life that I am forced to live.

So through my aching, pounding head and my stinging I work on. I keep on working and I keep on working and it's so repetitive and monotonous that it feels like sandpaper on my brain. It feels like sandpaper on my brain and dry, waterless winds in my throat and a slow-acting poison in my heart. It feels as if my whole being is being slowly consumed by some eldritch beast that no-one has a name for. I am a ghost. I am a ghost and that is all I will ever be.

This is what life is for me. This is what I have to do twelve hours a day, six days a week. This is all that will happen to me for years and years and years and years. This is all that will happen to me until the day that I die. This is all that I have to look forwards to, all that I have to have hope for. There is no hope for me. There is no hope for any of my people. Just a fragile, faltering sort of survival that very definitely is not life.

I wish that I was dead.

———

I feel tired in my bones, tired in my blood, tired in my flesh. I feel tired in my mind, tired in my heart, tired in my soul. It's a tiredness beyond tiredness. An exhaustion beyond exhaustion. It's as if I have been hollowed out, as if all my insides have been scraped out, raw and bleeding, and all I am left with is a used-up, burnt-out shell of a person.

But I am a person. I am a person. I am a full, whole, and good person. I have to remember that. I have to remember it. For the sake of my family, my friends, my neighbours, my community, and all the people I have never met before, who toil and suffer just as I do, I have to remember it. I have to remember who I am. I have to remember who we all are.

I am walking home from the bus station, and all around me there are masses of people just like me, masses of people who are all walking home as well. It makes me feel seen, feel known, to be among them all. It makes me feel as if I belong somewhere, as if I belong with someone. And belonging is the best feeling in the world. It gives me a sweet, bright, secret sort of victory tucked away deep in my soul where no malevolent forces will be able to find it, where no malevolent forces will be able to snuff it out.

"How was work today?" an older man who lives a few blocks away, Yoshi, asks me. His eyes are full of darkness. His eyes are full of exhaustion. His eyes are full of concern. His eyes are full of love. And looking into his eyes, looking into the endlessly deep, dark pool of his brown eyes, it absolutely breaks my heart into so many pieces but it also makes me feel more whole and more seen than I could ever hope to convey.

"Oh, you know, horrible," I reply to him. Because it's the truth. And even though it's horrid, even though it's heartbreaking, he needs the truth. He deserves the truth. Of course there are a lot of places and situations where lying is the best thing to do, where it's the kindest thing to do, but this is not one of those situations. He can see the hurt, the devastation, the desecration, deep in my eyes, and no matter how much I try to hide it, he will still be able to see it.

"I'm so sorry, Miri," he replies, voice heavy. "You deserve better. You deserve so much better." There is kindness in his words. And despondence in them. I knew he was expecting my answer. But still, he grieves for me, I know he grieves for me, I know he grieves for all of us. I grieve for him too, and I grieve for all the people, for all of my people, everywhere. We all grieve for each other.

"How was your work day?" My words come out with a deeply sorrowful edge to them. An edge that cuts into both of our souls, an edge that heals us both.

"Difficult. Very difficult. I had to lug bricks up so many flights of stairs, again and again and again for hours and hours at a time." His words are haunted. But I knew that this is more or less how he would answer. I could see the devastation within him the whole time. I can see the devastation within him now.

"Try to get something to eat after you go home," I suggest to him. I know it's not a very powerful suggestion. There might not be food at his little hut. And even if there is, it might need to be cooked first. And that takes time. But still, I know how hungry people are after they come home from work. I know it because I have felt it, day in and day out, for years on end. Although, I'm hungry all the time. We all are. The hunger never really ends.

"I'll try," he responds, "but I'll have to cook first. And I have to make sure there's enough food for all of us. I have to make sure there's enough food for the kids." His voice carries so much love in it. So much selflessness. Self-sacrifice. It's incredible, it's beautiful, it's terrible how much self-sacrifice we all need to have. How much self-sacrifice we all need to have all the time.

"Of course," I answer. And what other answer could I have possibly given. Of course he needs to look after the kids first. We all do. I suppose I'm lucky, for now, since I am a kid myself and that means that everyone looks after me. But still, I try to make sure that the younger kids get to eat before I get to eat. I try to make sure that the younger kids don't go hungry, or at least not more hungry than they have to.

"You should wash your hands right after you get home," Yoshi advises me.

"I will," I tell him. And it's the truth. Thankfully, water is not as expensive as food is. Well, good clean drinking water is expensive but nobody uses that. Nobody washes with that or drinks from that. The tap water that I have at home is connected directly to the river, and I can wash away all the stinging chemicals from my hands using that water.

Suddenly I hear a baby crying. It's an incredibly mournful, desperate sound. So young and innocent and searching. It pulls at my heartstrings, pulling me towards its direction. Who is leaving a baby to cry like that? I suppose maybe their caretaker is busy.

"Do you hear that?" I ask Yoshi. He looks at me questioningly.

"Do I hear what?"

"The baby?" I respond, "do you hear the baby crying?"

"I don't hear a baby crying."

"Huh. That's weird. I'm sure I can hear it." This is strange. Very strange. I absolutely have to investigate.

I twist and squeeze my way through the crowd that moves around me, finding any path I can through the dense crowd. I let the sounds of the baby crying guide me. They keep crying and crying and crying on. Strangely enough, for some reason nobody seems to be able to hear them. Or if they do hear the baby, they are showing no signs of it. Which is absolutely impossible, since anyone would go to a crying baby.

My mind thrums with confusion and curiosity. What is happening here? I don't know. But I feel something calling me, I feel something pulling me. Something that feels like the hint of smoke that is in the evening air. Something that feels like the gray-blue clouds of the twilight sky. Something that I can't explain, that is tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart. It's beautiful and calming yet deeply melancholy at the same time. I don't know why it's happening but this feeling feels familiar, it feels familiar, it feels so so very familiar.

I find myself in front of a dark alley between two lines of huts. The space is tiny. It is so tiny. I can barely squeeze myself into it. But the crying here in front of the alley is louder than it has been anywhere else. And I can see a tiny basket inside the alley. It must be the baby. Who left a baby in here? Why did they leave a baby in here? This strange mystery is only deepening.

I squeeze myself through the alley, and it's dark in here, so dark. A warm sort of dark. A shielding sort of dark. A protective sort of dark. I have felt this sort of darkness before. But still, there is something strange and unknowable about this dark. As if it is the stillness of life waiting to happen, before the universe was created. The darkness that preceded all life. That preceded and gave birth to the spark in all of our souls.

The crying gets closer as I near the basket. So I was right, the baby is in there. The basket is a worn-out thing, with holes and bits of wood sticking out here and there. It is practically falling apart. So whoever left this baby here, it's unlikely that they were rich or middle class. It's unlikely that they had a better basket to leave their child in. They must be one of us. And more than that, they're probably not mentally well. I don't think a reasonable person could do this, though of course I don't know the whole story. And I must find them so that I can give their baby back and help them with whatever they need so that this doesn't happen again.

Finally, I reach the baby. They are wrapped in a worn-down, threadbare blanket. Poor thing. I pick them up into my arms. The second I do, the entire world seems to shift around me. It seems to grow sharper and more plunging, more aching with life. The whole world seems to be calling out for me, welcoming me, needing me. Of course, I have always felt this way before. I have always felt this way so deeply before. But this is so much deeper, so much more ever-reaching than anything I have felt before. I feel as though I have become one with all the suffering and all the hope the whole world over.

The baby is so sweet. So, so very sweet. Like all children are. Their little tiny face is poking out of the blanket that they are wrapped in. And I look at that face. I look at that face with every part of my mind, my heart, my soul. Because something inside me is singing. Something inside me is telling me that this is very, very important. Of course, all babies are very, very important.

For some reason I cannot make out the facial features of the baby at all. Their face seems to be changing, shifting in front of my eyes. Not in an unsettling sort of way. Just in an inexplicable sort of way. They look like they have the face of every baby in the world, simultaneously. They look like they have the face of every baby that has ever been in the world, the face of every person that has ever been a baby, the face of every baby that will ever be in the world. All at once. All at the same time. I know, I know that as I am looking at this baby, I am truly looking at every baby that is, has been, or ever will be.

And it's inexplicable. It's so inexplicable. It's so very inexplicable. I don't understand it at all, and yet I understand it completely at the same time. I understand that I understand it, I understand that I don't understand it, and I don't understand that I understand it as well. I am feeling emotions that I never thought myself capable of feeling, and that is saying a lot, considering how many emotions I have felt in my life.

"Baby?" I coo softly at the child, who looks up at me with big eyes that are all the colours that eyes can be, simultaneously. "How are you baby?"

The baby smiles at me. And it's such a bright, sweet, saccharine thing. I am beyond amazed by it.

"What do you want, little one?" I smile back at the baby. They look at me. And I get the feeling that they are looking deep into me, deep into me, deep into my very soul.

"Noww, nooow, noww," the baby babbles again and again. In this sweet little baby voice. In their sweet little baby voice that is all at once the voice of every baby in the world. Of course, I know the baby is not really saying "now." The baby is just babbling in baby talk. But that's what it sounds like the baby is saying to me. And these words, these words that are not words, seep into the centre of my very being. I don't know what is happening. I don't know what is happening but at the same time, a strange part of me does.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," I say to the baby as cutely as possible.

I walk towards the end of the alley, the little bundle in my arms. I don't know what I'm going to do with this child. Previously, my plan was to track down their parent or parents and ask why they had been left in the alley. But now. Now, I'm not sure the child even has parents. Unless of course you count every parent that's in the world, that ever was in the world, that ever will be in the world. But still, a baby is a baby is a baby, and they need some sort of caretakers to take care of them.

I emerge out of the alley and onto the dusty road. My arms feel strangely light, though. I look down, and there is no baby there. Just air.

———

I lie on my mat on the floor, my dad on one side of me, my three younger siblings on the other side of me, and my papa behind them. There are more people against the other wall. It's cramped here. Like it always is. But some houses are even more cramped. My aunt died a year ago, so we have a bit of space. But still, she died. She died and she was my aunt. She was practically my mother. And she died too young, too early, like all people do. And I'm still not over it. I'm not over it. I'm not over it at all. I don't think I ever will be over it.

The night is dark and hot around me. Silent, save for the blowing of the wind outside. It almost seems eerie. It almost seems otherworldly. Night is always this way. That's part of why I love it. There is no work at night. No demands. Just rest. A person gets to exist as just themselves, they get to exist just as a person and not as a work machine. Whatever else the rich took away from us, they couldn't take away the night time. It's a time that is just for us.

In this atmosphere, the thoughts of the baby return to my mind. I had pushed that experience away, thinking of it just as some sort of psychosis, as I was talking with my neighbours, with my friends. I had pushed the experience away as I was talking with my family. And I had tried to tell myself that it was nothing, it was nothing, I was just going crazy. Lord knows that many people go crazy in this world. Lord knows that there are a lot of things to go crazy about.

But in the stillness of the nighttime, I realize. The air all around me waits with promise. And I realize. That it was not a hallucination. It could not have been a hallucination. It was too real, too definite, too undeniable. No matter how strange it was, no matter how much it made no sense, there is no denying that it was amazing, and there is no denying that it's undeniable. Because I know what my feelings were at that moment. I know how strong my feelings were, how sure my feelings were. And everyone always says that if your heart is adamant about something, you better follow your heart.

So I'm going to listen to to my heart and I'm going to listen to my feelings and I'm going to let my feelings guide me in the right direction. I am going to let them guide me towards the truth, whatever it is. Because I know there is so much more to this world than what makes sense. I know there is so much more to this world than what can be understood and explained rationally. And this seems to be like one of those things.

But still, knowing that what happened did actually happen and knowing what that means are two very different things. I can't figure out what it means, though I know that it definitely does mean something. Why was the baby there? Who is the baby? How did the baby get created? Why - and how - did the baby choose to reveal themselves to me, if they did choose to reveal themselves to me? Why were they saying what they were saying?

The more I think about these questions, the more I think about my situation, the more questions I have. And the more questions I have, the more I wonder what the answers to those questions could possibly be. Everything happened but nothing was explained. I have to find out for myself what all of this means. And I have no clues to go off of.

Actually, that's untrue. I do have clues. And there are certain things that I do know. I know for example that the baby represents all of us. The baby represents all the people, past and present, and all of the struggles we are faced with. They represent all the love shared between us and all the ways, big and small, that we resist our exploitation and that we hope to resist our exploitation. That much is apparent. But what now? Why did they show themselves to me in this moment and what does that mean?

Despite my confusion, the pulse of hope thrums in me. A pulse of hope that is so much stronger than hope has ever been before. Because I know that this means something. I know that this has to mean something. And it means something profound. It means that things are happening. Things are finally, finally happening. And maybe we will finally, finally get free.

I try to stay up late thinking. I want to stay up late thinking. But exhaustion and drowsiness settles over me and I cannot fight it anymore as I am pulled down into sleep. Though I suppose that is for the best. I have work tomorrow, and if I am sleepy at work, it will be even more hellish than it already is.

———

I am surrounded by friends both old and new. People I've known for a while and people I've just met. We are all together, gathering after work. We are all crowded together, sitting on the floor of Karlium'a hut. And I'm aching with tiredness. As I always am after work. I'm aching with hurt. And, like always, the steady gnaw of hunger twists in my gut. Twists in all of our guts. But, surrounded by people, surrounded by my people, all of that is soothed. And I feel, I feel at home here. I feel like I belong here. And being a part of this milieu makes me feel like my life is returning back to me, at least a little bit.

There is Daria here, a woman in her mid thirties I haven't met before. She has skin the colour of river clay and hair the colour of darkness. There is Hadashi, and I know him. He's in his twenties and he has thick, curly hair that shines like a halo when the light hits it.

There's Valimem, and they're in their twenties too, and they have the darkest, largest eyes I have ever seen on an adult. Arili is in her early thirties, yet she looks so much older. Her eyes do at least. Cambri is in their forties, and they have wrinkles around the edges of their eyes. Mallee is a teenager and she has a beautiful broad nose and round eyes. The two other children that are here are Kallari, aged seven, and Amori, aged five. They're both so incredibly cute. Amori cannot pronounce his Ks and he loves monsters and fantasy creatures. Kallari always tries to make sure that everything is fair, though she's so young. And of course there's little baby Rosalee, with her big eyes and bright babbling, whose face I saw in that mysterious baby.

"If you could talk to any of our ancestors, who would it be?" Mallee asks.

"I want to talk to the people from before. Before the place got all bad." Amori's voice is so sweet.

"Ooh that's cool," Valimem pipes up, "why would you want to do that?"

"Because," the child starts, drawing out the word, "then I could know how everything was!"

"That's nice!" Cambri cheers. "I would love to know that too. Sometimes it feels like this life is all there is."

"Aww don't say that," Daria presses, "there's so much good stuff that we will have one day. I promise."

"How about you, Kallari," Hadashi asks, "who would you want to talk to?"

"I think maybe someone who made the bad people scared." There is something dark and sharp in her words. She is far too young to be thinking that way but she is thinking that way anyways.

"Ooh that's a good answer," Arili exclaims, "we could learn some tips and tricks from them!"

"What tricks?" Mallee asks.

"Like maybe how to steal!" Amori exclaims, "I would love to know how to steal!"

"Ooh, that's a good one!" Valimem's words are bright, with an exhausted undertone to them.

"I wanna learn to break thinks!" Kallari exclaims.

"Breaking things is fun," Hadashi agrees, "but if you do it you'll get in trouble."

"Hey un ... guys," I begin, not knowing how to start. My voice is cautious and fearful. It makes everyone's eyes turn to me.

"What is it?" Cambri asks. "Are you okay, sweet Miri?"

"I think I'm okay. At least, I hope so. But something really strange happened on my way home from work yesterday."

"What was it?" Arili questions, "tell us so that maybe we can help you,"

"Well," I begin, "I heard the sound of a baby crying from an alley. So I go there and pick the baby up, right?"

"Yeah," she responds.

"Well, the baby had the face of like, millions of different babies, all at the same time. I could tell, I knew in my heart that this baby was, it was all the babies ever. I don't know how I knew. I just knew."

"Trust your intuition child," Daria tells me, "it's there for a reason. It's saved us all before."

"Yep. I will," I reply. "So, I start to leave the alley with the baby. To maybe find out where they came from. But, the second I leave the alley, the baby is gone."

Everyone is silent for a while. Well, except the kids, who are talking to each other.

"Do you know the story of how the universe was invented?" Mallee asks me, voice dead serious, laced with awe.

"Of course I do," I tell her, "everyone does."

"But do you really remember it?" she asks.

"What are you talking about?" My voice has a slightly incredulous tint to it.

"Miri. Your name." Valimem's voice is dead serious.

"What about my name?"

"You were named after the Mother of All," they answer.

"Yeah, Mama Miria, what about her?"

"Your Aunt June named you, didn't she?" Daria asks.

"Yeah she did, what about that?"

"I wonder why she named you that way."

"Anyways," Cambri commences, "I think things will become more apparent if we refresh the story.

"Once upon a time there were no people. No animals. No plants. There was no earth, no sky, no fire, no water. There was only Mama Miria, and within Her She held infinite possibilities." I know the story that Cambri is telling. I know it well. But it's always nice to hear it again.

"Miria was lonely," they continued, "She was incredibly lonely. So She thought to Herself that She would create a being that could keep Her company. So She looked deep within Herself and saw the endless possibility that was laid in there. And She became pregnant with a child. She waited many long months before She gave birth to that baby. And who was the baby?" Cambri's voice has a light edge to it.

"The universe!" the children both exclaim joyfully. I smile.

"Yes, the universe," Cambri agrees. "And what was the universe? It was everything that has ever been created, everything that is created, everything that was created. It is everything that will have the Spark of Life within it. And everything ever was coalesced into one thing, into one sweet, precious baby that was every baby ever to come, all together, all at once.

"And Mama Miria, of course, took care of the baby, protecting it and nurturing it and doing everything to help the baby grow up big and strong."

"Like my mama!" Kallari exclaims.

"Yes," I tell her, "just like your mama."

"But all was not well," Cambri continues, "for evil forces found the baby and took it away from Mama Miria's arms. But She spends every moment desperately searching for Her sweet child."

There is silence again after this.

"I think," Hadashi starts, "Mama Maria found her child."

So ... what in the world am I supposed to do now? Now that I have to be the Mother of All? I'm only twelve.

———

I'm in a Resistance meeting. Because this is exactly what I need to do as a mother who wants to protect her child. This is exactly where I need to be. All around me are people who want to bring down the rich, who want to fix the world. People who are hungry, people who are tired, people who are over-worked. People who are angry about it all and would do anything to take a stand. And I have to fix the world. I have to fix the world. I have to heal my child.

"We have rights. Our rights go so far beyond merely staying alive. They encompass everything that is necessary for a good life, one of dignity and respect." The passion in Remini's voice is intoxicating. Her eyes are dark and her eyelashes even darker. She's in her twenties, like most resistance members, and she puts so much thought into everything she says.

"Exactly," Kalavi echoes, "they think that they do so much by giving us not enough food, and not enough water, but dear universe, they're the ones who should be grateful. Grateful that we haven't fucking killed them yet." His dark lips purse in disgust as he finishes talking. There are cheers all around us and I join in. It feels rebellious. But it feels wrong, somehow. Incomplete, somehow.

"They should be grateful that we fucking do everything for them!" Kalkiti softly exclaims, "we grow their food, we cut and sort and process and package their food, we make all their fancy clothes and pretty jewelry and nice furniture. We make their books and their toys and their big, big houses. And their televisions and music players and everything else. It's all us. We do all the work." Her skin is light, her face is round like the moon, and her broad nose crinkles in disgust.

"They never look at it that way though," Cakvi states ruefully, "they only see who is getting all the money for all the work that we do. And then that person gets all the credit. That's how it works, for the rich. They see a rich dirt stain in a position of power over everyone and suddenly that rich dirt stain is responsible for all the work their thousands of workers do." Cakvi's tone is dark from their harsh life. Their skin is dark from the harsh sun. And I can relate. I can relate so well.

The conversation swirls around me for a while. People try to get me to talk. I don't want to talk right now. I just want to hear what everyone has to say. There is so much anger all around me. Of course, there is always anger all around me but this anger is so much more flaming, so much more tangible. There is also deep insight all around me. Also not new, but it's all so concentrated, undiluted, all together at once. I don't know if I can take it all or not.

But there is one big problem. For all the insight and analysis and explanation of all that's happening, there aren't any actual plans for how to stop everything that's happening. I knew I wouldn't walk into a revolution on its way to being planned. But damn, there seems to be no hope here. No hope of things getting better. No plans of how to make things better.

"What should we do about all this?" I pipe up. "I know it's not fair. All of it is very much not fair. But how do we change it? Any plans for that?"

"We don't have enough power yet, to start a revolution," Diani explains to me, kindness in his eyes, "we couldn't face them and win. We plan crimes, heists, stuff like that. But all that is pretty small time. It mostly just keeps people alive, it doesn't really change the game."

"We have to lay the emotional and intellectual foundation for a revolution before actually doing it," Favi explains, a hand reaching up to her thick hair. "Revolution can't happen unless people want it, unless people know we deserve it, unless people know that what's happening needs to be stood up against. We have to build anger within people. We have to build rage and resentment and, most importantly, hope."

"What you're doing is very important," I acquiesce, "It's very important and good. We do need to lay the groundwork for a revolution first. But do you guys have hope?" I ask. "Do you guys thinks revolution is actually going to happen?"

"It will." Jai answers, "but we're not sure when."

"I think ... I think the revolution needs to happen now. Or soon. I think that we're powerful enough. That we have what it takes. Right now."

"Why do you think that?" Cakvi asks.

I explain to them what happened to me on that fateful day, coming home from work. I explain the baby. I explain the late night I had thinking it all over. I explain the conversation I had with my friends and neighbours. And I explain the horror and glory of the realization, and of the time I spent going over and over in my mind what this all could mean. They stare at me with awe, with joy, with hope in their eyes. And when I'm done, there is a spontaneous round of cheering echoing through the whole room.

"The Mother found Her baby!" Diani exclaims.

"But what do we do next?" Remini asks.

"We get more people," Favi states. "We get them to join us."

———

"The world will be better only if we all try to make it better," I speak out into the room of people gathered around me. They all heard my story already. And they generally agreed that the experience means something, that it means something important, and that right now is the time when great things will happen.

"Things can only happen if we work for them," an older woman named Ravi speaks out to the crowd, the children looking up at us wide-eyed and the babies crying or cooing from the arms of the people holding them. "We have a chance right now. We have a chance to set things right. But we have to go for it. We have to use this chance and not let it slip away."

"We have to fight!" little Alixi exclaims, their young voice dead serious, "and defeat the bad guys!"

"We have to defeat the bad guys!" I echo, "you're so right!"

"But how are we supposed to do anything?" Maliki asks, his dark curls shining in the dim candlelight lighting up the room. "There's no logical, practical reason for us to have power."

"There doesn't have to be one," I reply. "We will find our power if we all look. If we all have faith. If we all create opportunities out of what we have. Sure, we might not know how we'll win right now. But if we keep looking, if we all work together, we'll find a way to win."

"Exactly," Navai agrees, "we have to try. Because the Mother found Her child again. The Mother found Her child. And we're all the Mother. And we're all the child. We have to do what any mother would do and help the child, help each other, by any means necessary."

"We have to be a good mama," young Jini agrees, "so that all the kids can be happy."

"What's so loving about all getting ourselves killed in a failed revolution?" Balvi asks, his voice tinged with morose darkness but also with repressed hope.

"The future," eleven-year-old Clari explains, "the future people will live a better life. The universe will go back to being good, being fair, being the way it's supposed to be. We'll do it for the future and we will win."

"Yeah," Ravi echoes, "we need the future generations to have better lives than us. The universe will be hurting, will be wanting, will be wrong, if things go on the way that they do. If we can make things better for future generations, if we can get rid of the evil in the world, that would be good."

"Besides," Maliki adds in, "it's better to die on your feet that it is to live on your knees. Standing up against the rich, even if it kills us, is so much better than this desperate, aching sort of life that we're all living."

"Exactly," I agree, "And we will win. I know we'll win."

"And how will joining the resistance help?" A young woman named Nellin asks.

"Because," I answer, "if we're all in the resistance, we can all communicate with each other. We can all plan together, share ideas, share knowledge, and build ourselves up into a force to be reckoned with."

———

I stand on the corner of the narrow, dust-paved road, scores of people passing me by. I have lookouts who can tell me if any cops are coming by. But right now I'm safe.

"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask the weary travellers as they pass by, "we meet at every house number ending in 4, from 7-9 on Saturdays."

People look at me. They smile. Like I'm a sweet child selling flowers on the roadside. I guess I am a young child. But I don't feel like one. I haven't felt like a child in years. There is a weariness about me and a darkness. My life has never been my own. Of course, I don't want it to be my own. But I don't want to belong to the rich either.

Hopefully I will be able to give my life to the people I want to. Soon.

"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask.

"Sure," an older woman with wrinkles around her kind eyes tells me, "but only if you tell me why a kid as young as you is out here doing something so dangerous."

"I'm fine, ma'am. I chose to be out here."

"You be careful, though. You're too young to find yourself in trouble."

"Thanks for the concern." I smile at her, and she smiles back, ruffling my hair before she leaves.

I keep on telling people about the resistance meetings. I know that this is dangerous. But I also know that no-one will turn us in. No-one will tell the authorities about us. Because there is a loyalty among all the poor people here, among the people who have to sell their days and and their life's blood in order to put not enough food on the table. We all would die for each other.

The authorities likely won't torture us anytime soon either. Not before we plan our our next action. When the weapons are in our hands, the high-caliber, lethal weapons that can bring the end of the whole system as we know it, then we will be free. We will be free to rebuild a world of sibling hood. And the baby will finally be safe.

"Will you come to a resistance meeting?" I ask the person passing by in front of me. "We meet from 7-9 on Saturdays, in each hut ending with a four. We're going to change the whole world."

"How are you planning to change the whole world, little girl?" they ask me.

"We are planning to bring it all down."

"Bring it all down? But how will we do that? We have no power."

"We have more power than you think. A miracle has happened. Come to the resistance meeting and you will find out what it is."

"Okay, okay. I'll go to the meeting. But you guys better have the strength to back up your words."

"We'll be able to back up our words, just you see."

"Okay. I really hope it's time to finally change things. But I don't think we'll be able to, unfortunately."

"I know how you feel. I've felt that way before. We've all felt that way before. But you have to have hope."

"Hope is good," they agree, "but recklessness is not. I would advise you to be careful and to know what you're doing before you try anything dangerous."

"We will be careful, I swear. We know what the stakes are. We know what the consequences of failure are. We know all the lives that are on the line."

"I want to join you. I really do."

"Then do it. Then join us."

"I will."

They shoot me a tired, enamoured sort of smile, and I shoot them a strong, confident smile back. This day is going well.

"Do you want to join the resistance?" I ask the next passers-by. "We are planning something huge, and we need for everyone to get involved."

———

I'm coming home from work again. I am beyond exhausted. I do not feel like a human anymore. I never feel like a human after work. All I feel like is an empty vessel, a hollowed-out, spectre-thin thing that exists to suffer and for nothing more. I smile at the people around me. And they smile back. But all of our smiles are harrowed. All of our smiles are haunted.

All at once I hear the same sort of crying that I heard before. Many-voiced and woeful. Young and fragile. I follow the sound through the twisting alleyways again, just as I had done before. And once again I find the world baby, the baby which is everyone and and all of nature, all at the same time. The baby which is beautiful, beautiful, so infinitely beautiful. The baby which I want to give everything to.

Immediately, my heart is overcome with more love than I can fit into my body. It seeps out of me, and into this baby, this baby with so many features, so many faces, who I take into my arms and cradle gently. I feel as though my entire being is exploding out into the entire universe, and I am becoming one with everything everywhere. I want to protect this child. I want to protect this child.

I so very desperately want to protect this child. But I can't.

Not yet at least.

I cradle the small being close to me, until they stop crying. They are much quieter now, at peace since I picked them up, since I held them close, since I let my love and my proximity and my intimacy seep into their tiny, needy form.

They were lonely, so lonely out here in the alley, uncared for by the world, left on their own to suffer. But now they have me. Now they have all my family, all my neighbours, all my friends, all my coworkers, everyone in this world. Now we will all look out for them.

The young one is in my arms, and reaches up to grasp my nose with their tiny little fingers, with their tiny little hand. This is so infinitely adorable. I cannot help but laugh. It's sweet. It's so very infinitely sweet. Sweeter than anything could ever be and my heart is soaked through with glory, is heavy from my joy. Just looking at this child gives me so much joy.

"Are you going to stay with us?" I ask softly, looking at the bundle of joy my arms. "Or are you going to disappear the moment I walk out of this alley again?"

The baby flaps their hands in response.

"Stay with us," I plead with them, my voice gentle and full of love. "Stay with us, and let me show you to everyone, so that we all can see you and believe."

The baby makes an "aah" sound in response. I don't know how much they are understanding, but the big, round eyes look solemn, look thoughtful, look sad.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go." I get up from the ground I am kneeling on, slowly standing up and making my way to the sunlight of the streets. The baby is playing in my arms, babbling some adorable nonsense. I hope they'll be here when I leave the alleyway.

I take the final, tentative step into the main street. And still there is a light heaviness in my arms. And still the baby is cooing close to my heart. I break out into a beaming smile, and I go to the nearest person I can find.

"Do you see this baby?!" I exclaim in joy. And his ghost-like features light up in awe, and in hope.

——-

"Look at this child!" I proclaim to the resistance fighters gathered around me. I am not in the resistance meeting that I am usually in, the one in my neighbourhood. Instead, I am two neighbourhoods over, telling the people there of what I heard, what I witnessed, and what I experienced in my life.

The baby is in my arms now. But I pass the child on to Amine, who will pas them on to other people. It is important that everyone sees the child, that everyone holds the child. Not just the people in the resistance, but all of the people of the world. I realize that it will probably take about a year of constant travelling, a year of tired hunger, of new faces, in order to give everyone a chance to interact with the child. But it will be worth it. It will be so very worth it.

There aren't even that many people anyways. I'll be able to come home to my family after each day of travelling. And my family is okay with my "decision" to not work, even though that means that my whole community will be hungrier than they would have been if I did work, because they know that right now, everything is changing. The whole world is changing.

"I ... I'm amazed," a person named Davelo tells me.

"I am too, believe me, so am I," I respond.

"This is a sign. It has to be." Teenaged Arcadia's voice is full of joy, full of passion. She's holding her own baby, but looking at both the babies in this room, babies which are actually the same baby.

"So ... what does this mean? Does it mean that we will win?" Fig asks. He is trying to not get overly excited. He knows how dangerous that can be. But he can't help himself.

"Well," Amari starts, "we all know the legend. We all know that when the baby and the mother are reunited, it means that the world will go back to being fair again, being together and being free and being equal."

"Are you the mother, Miri?" Biri asks me, eyes full of wonder. "You are named after Mama Miria after all."

"I used to think that," I reply to him, "but I don't think so anymore. These past few weeks, I've been going around and seeing everyone. And the way everyone interacts with this child, the way that everyone loves them, I'm starting to think we're all the mother."

"That's very poetic," Davelo speaks out to us. "We are all the mother are we are all the child. And now that we are reunited with ourselves, now that the mother is reunited with the child, a new age will come."

"Are we sure, though?" Kamima asks, eyes darker than storm clouds and more solemn than the twilight. "Are we sure that we are on the verge of a prophecy?"

"We all know the stories," Manoni tells us, wrinkled eyes gazing into our souls.

"We all know how they come to fruition."

"But how?" Mamon asks. "How are we going to take on the whole system?"

"With effort," Arcadia answers. "By trying our best and doing everything that we possibly can in order to create change. We all have to try our best. All of us. Because the prophecy can only come to fruition if we work towards it."

"How right you are," Biri pronounces.

———

I am with my family. My dad, Amerni, my three little sisters, Cala, Rashi, Tessa, my papa Yonas, my "aunts" Marvi, and Carla, my three younger "cousins" Sali, Baro, and Lai, and my twin brother Davi. We are all sitting close together, on the floor of our hut, sharing in each other's warmth. We are passing the baby around, the baby that the community has taken to calling Uni. They are reaching their arms out, wanting to be held by all of us. It's cozy. Really cozy. It's sweet. Really sweet. I can almost forget about how hungry I am, how aching I am, or how my throat hurts.

"Are we going to be able to fight, too?" Sali asks.

"You can if you want to," my dad replies. "But it will be difficult. It will be beyond difficult. War is no place for a child."

"But why can Davi and Miri go?" Cala asks.

"Because," I reply, "We're much older than you guys."

"You can fight if you want to," Aunt Marvi tells the younger kids, "but war is not fun. It's not fun at all."

"But I want to fight!" Lai whines.

I think about how horrifying it would be if my younger siblings and cousins, and all the little kids all around actually, fought. They're just babies, really. They don't belong in a war. They don't belong in all the horror and danger that accompanies war. They don't deserve to die, they don't deserve to have to kill people, they don't deserve any of the brutality of war.

But then again, none of us deserve the brutality of war. And yet, we're all getting ready for it anyways. We're all looking forwards to it even, despite the fact that we're dreading it also. We are all anxiously awaiting the day when the pot finally boils over.

Why?

Because it's a chance to stand up against the rich.

They've been working us to death for years, giving us not enough to survive, making us waste all of our precious energy at their precarious jobs. I have seen so many deaths over the years. My aunt. My neighbours. My baby brother. People at work, who get into accidents. Unhoused people who freeze in the cold winters. I'm sick of it. I'm so sick of all of it.

But now, here, we have a chance to make the rich finally, finally see us. We have a chance to make them finally, finally fear us, instead of us just fearing them. We have a chance to show them that we are human beings, we always were human beings, and we are far more human than they will ever be. We have a chance to show them that we are much stronger than they ever thought we were.

And we have a chance to create a better future. A future where all of this suffering will not happen. A future where nobody has to suffer anymore. We can create a future where each child grows up healthy, grows up strong, grows up well-educated, and with time to play and have fun. We can create a future where everyone looks forward to happiness and peace in their lives. Where no child or adult has to work like a slave. Where we all take care of each other, we all really and truly take care of each other no matter what.

And that's worth fighting for. It's worth killing for. It's worth dying for. It's worth anything and I understand why I want to join the war. I understand why the children want to join the war.

"It's important to have people who live, who take care of the new generations," my papa tells the kids. "It's just as important for you guys to save yourselves so that you can create the future."

"I'll miss you guys!" Tessa moves to hug me, and I cry as I hug her back. It's horrific, how much sacrifice this is going to take.

———

I'm walking along the streets, streets only occupied by young children, by toddlers, by a couple of babies. Everyone else is at work. The adults. The teenagers. The older children. There's no-one left to take care of the young ones. They have to take care of themselves. It's horrifying. But it's a horror that we've all been forced to grow used to, over the years. It's a horror we are forced to deal with.

I carry baby Uni. And their weight is not heavy in my arms. Their weight is never heavy in my arms. I say hello to the groups of children who I pass by. They say hello to me back. I'm going to the far end of the city, where the agricultural workers have their huts. I'm taking baby Uni to them, so that they can spend time with the baby and see what the child is like. Uni is sucking their thumb.

I think as I walk. More specifically, I think about how I haven't seen a single police officer during the whole year that I've been with Uni. Why is this the case? Usually I see police officers here and there as I walk through the streets, as I go on with my life. Usually it's a terrifying experience, but an experience that I am accustomed to dealing with nonetheless, as anxiety-inducing as it always is.

But there have been none anywhere near me this past year. While I cannot help but be grateful, I also wonder, why is this the case? What is going on?

"Hi," I sing-sing kindly to a five-year-old boy. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"I'm good. I have a question though. Did you happen to see any police officers here?"

"A time ago there was a police, but there's none now."

"Okay. Thank you. How long ago?"

"Maybe ... more than 15 minutes?"

"Okay, thanks so much. Good luck, buddy."

"Good luck!"

Okay, so, fifteen minutes or more ago there was a cop. But not right now. So, there was a cop before I showed up here, before Uni showed up here. But they left just as I came to this area. Interesting.

———

I take baby Uni to scrap yards. It's a horrible place for a baby, filled with so much garbage and jagged metal. But then again, what isn't a horrible place for a baby? I make these trips daily, and I am always accompanied by different kids. We have heaps of blankets with us, blankets borrowed from neighbours. We are confident that no guards will be after us. Because Uni is just such a loud baby and the guards can't stand their loudness.

We can also get through the gates of the scrap yard easily, gates that are otherwise closed to all the public, because the people who stand vigil by the gates leave once they hear the baby for too long. The child is our key. Our key to anything. And for this we are incredibly grateful to them. For this we thank them everyday.

In the scrap yard, we find pieces of metal that are shiny, that are new, that are not rusted. More importantly, we look for pieces of metal that have sharp edges and could be easy to cut. These will make our weapons. Weapons that the rich do not want us to have. Weapons that we make from the garbage that they throw away, from the incredible waste that they generate.

We wrap these medium-sized pieces of metal, usually about the length and width of my forearm, in the blankets that we borrowed. We understand that it looks suspicious, walking through the city with a bunch of blankets wrapped up in our arms. But we also know that as long as baby Uni is with us, no guards will accost us, for they'll all be too afraid.

Day after day after day after day, this plan works. We build up piles and piles of metal sheets. We find stronger bits of metal, with sharp edges. We cut the sheets of metal with the pieces of stronger metal, after using precious candles to soften the spots we want to cut along. We bend the newly-cut pieces. And we distribute them as spears for the people to use and get good at.

——-

Now is the moment of truth. I am walking towards the armoury, with a handful of other children. Cassi is seven, Racha is nine, Amio is six, Lai is eleven, and Olem is thirteen like me and has baby Uni in his arms. I have baby Clara in my arms. Nobody will suspect a group of children like us. Of course, the rich hate poor children like us, they suspect poor children like us, but they do not think us capable of of any great deception, or anything that requires a lot of thinking. And of course, they don't know about the World Baby. They don't know the power that the baby has. The power that all babies have.

I am fizzing with excitement. It is bubbling up hot and sweet in my chest, in my belly, in all parts of me. My mind is racing with equal parts anxiety and anticipation. Anxiety is a cold stone in my insides. Anticipation is making my soul light and in flight like a bird. And I feel as though I have the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. Though I guess I do. We all have the weight of the entire world on our shoulders. But we all have each other. And we can carry the load together. We can share the load together. And that makes the heavy weight so much lighter.

I am buzzing. I am buzzing. Everything inside of me is buzzing. I am overjoyed. There is so much that could go right. This might be the beginning. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the start. The end of our poverty, our brutal, degrading, dehumanizing work. This could be the start of true freedom, a freedom that we could all share together, that we could all share with each other. It could be the start of a world where all people are seen as equal, are treated as equal, are seen as one. We all hide in each other.

And yet. Yet. There is so much that could go wrong. We could fail. We could be killed. We could all be killed in punishment of our actions, in punishment of our rebellion. This could be the end of our people as we know them. This could be the end of everyone who's lived and died and worked and yearned and loved and hurt and cried and smiled and laughed under the heel of the rich. This could mean the end of our whole class as we know it. And with it, the end of all of our stories, the end of all of our songs, the end of all of our teachings and our histories and everything we pass on to the new generations. It all might be gone. The new generations might be gone.

Yet I don't think that will happen. I don't think we will fail. None of us think that we will fail, though the possibility looms in each of our minds, pressing us to make sure we put our full effort into this plan. I have faith. I have faith in baby Uni, I have faith in myself, and I have faith in all my people. All my people have faith in the baby, all my people have faith in each other. We have seen the signs, and we know that the time is now. The time to rise up. The time to change everything.

The children all around me have determination hidden deep in their eyes. They have rage. They have hate. And they have love. They all have a deep, untethered, primal, and all-reaching love in their eyes. A love that encapsulates themselves and is so much bigger than themselves at the same time. A love that has existed for as long as their souls have existed in the place beyond life, which is to say time without beginning. A love that will exist for as long as their souls will exist in the place beyond life, which is to say a time without end.

I look into their eyes and that gives me strength. I look into their eyes and it gives me hope. If soothes the sharpest edges of my cutting fear and leaves me able to go on, able to do all that I am meant to do, all that we are meant to do together. They are so determined. So determined. And I echo their determination. And I echo the power that they have. The power that we all collectively have, within ourselves, shared amongst ourselves. The power that will set us free.

The babies coo in our arms. They are adorable. And, looking at them, it makes the whole thing worth it. It makes our whole mission worth it. Because if these babies can have a better life, then that's all that we need, then that's all that we need from anyone. And it will make everything worth it. Besides the babies cooing, there is no sound from any of us. We all communicate in looks, in long-held eye contact, in the dead set of our mouths. Because we cannot give our plan away. We cannot let anyone know what it is that we are up to, besides all the people who already know and will keep the secret with us. We cannot let any of the rich, any of the guards, anyone with power in this society that we live in know what we are really up to. So we keep our silence, we keep our silence like a promise, and we walk together to the armoury.

We stop a slight bit aways from the armoury, away from the guards on all the many watch stations of the armoury. We sit down on the road, the dusty road that is unoccupied at the moment, except for us. It's not suspicious. It's not suspicious at all. Many children play in the road. It's the one place we have that is outside and under the sky. Even adults gather in unused roads often, gossiping and chatting about small things, things that the guards would not be suspicious upon hearing. It's slightly strange that we're doing this in the evening, when most children are much closer to the residential part of town. But there are huts near us. We're not straying too far away.

We sit down on the road, our worn, dirty clothes sitting on the dust. And we pass the babies around to each other. They giggle and coo, happy at being given attention and cuddles. And this is good. This is very good. We smile at them, and coo back. And, seeing our smiles, they giggle even more. It's adorable. It's so adorable. And it's so purposeful. So incredibly purposeful. These kids are helping us fulfill our destiny.

"Peek-a-boo!" Amio exclaims, and the babies scream in delight. We all join Amio in their peek-a-boo game. We each take turns covering our faces and uncovering them. The babies absolutely love it. They have no sense of object permanence yet, so they literally think our faces are disappearing and coming back into existence. This is adorable. Clara copies is, putting her face in her hands and then moving her hands away. Uni sees this and squeals. Perfect. This is so very perfect.

We continue playing our game for a while. It feels like it has been forever. Because the pressure digs into us, grates against us. It feels like it has been forever but I know that realistically, it probably has been only a few minutes. As the minutes go on, the babies get louder and louder. They get more and more excited. And I don't know if they're doing this on purpose or not. I don't know if they understand the gravity of this situation, I don't know if they understand the importance of what they are doing. But, looking at their faces, I think they probably understand, in their own, special, childish baby type of way.

I look around, as if in mild interest, at the scene all around me. The guards are getting increasingly agitated. All of them. I can see it in their faces. The growing trepidation. The discomfort. The way they adjust the expensive collars of their expensive black guard suits. The way that they look at each other as if wanting an explanation. They way that they fidget with their hands and pace in front of the doors that they're supposed to be protecting, getting up from their chairs.

They'll be gone soon. They'll be gone so very soon. And so will all the guards resting inside, where the windows carry in the sounds of our merrymaking.

Lai takes baby Clara and lifts her high in the air, and then brings her back down in a swift motion. Oh my gosh, it must be exhausting doing that. She's hungry. She's tired. She doesn't have the energy for all this. But anyways she does it, because babies love it, because nothing can make a baby scream like doing this. She goes to baby Uni afterwards, and lifts them up in the air and brings them backdown. The young child screams so loudly.

At this moment, the guards all walk away hastily. They do not say a word to anyone. They do not even look each other in the eyes. They simply speed away as fast as a walking feet can carry them, looks of deep disturbance in their faces. Lai is still lifting the babies. I don't look at the guards straight on. That would be too suspicious. But I do keep track of them through the corner of my eye. We all do, trying to keep it all as down-low as possible.

I take over Lai's job. She must be exhausted by now. She needs her strength for the battle to come. I play with the babies and yes, yes it is very tiring. But also, it's very rewarding. Seeing the babies happy, seeing them so full of life, so full of life despite the fact that they're immersed in death, it's beyond joyous. It's beyond worth it. And I understand, now, how parents put so much effort into their children even after being bone-weary from their long days of work. I understand now how seeing your child smile is worth anything and everything.

The guards inside the building now also leave. I don't see how many of them go, since I'm still busy with the babies. But I trust that the other children are looking into it, that they're seeing how many guards left and are ensuring that there are probably none left inside the building. I trust my friends. I trust my people. All of them. The guards on the roof also climb down and walk away.

I pass the babies to Olem, and he plays with them as well, making them scream and laugh and giggle and coo. All the other kids keep a lookout for any of the guards coming back. Right now we are all not even trying to hide the fact that we're looking. Cassi and Racha get up and walk all around the building, peering down all the streets surrounding the building.

"They're gone," the two young children tell us.

Amio then whistles, a sharp, piercing sound. A sound that is not too out of place in the busy, chaotic world that we inhabit. If any of the guards heard it they would simply attribute it to a child being loud. Which is exactly what this is. It's a child being loud. But the people lined up in the huts all around, who are standing close to each other, crowded and awaiting, they know what this whistle means. They know the many layers of deep, simple, complex symbolism behind it. They know that this is our signal, the one we all agreed upon for its simplicity and unassumingness.

The first thing that happens is that people hang up blankets to dry in front of all the streets, a few blocks away from the the armoury, blocking off sight of the armoury from the streets on all sides. Hanging up laundry in and of itself is not suspicious. But this is suspicious, to have so much laundry handing up at the same time, at such a precise location. Fortunately for us, if any of the guards who patrol the streets try to investigate this strange occurance, they will get too close and hear baby Uni, and then they will go away. Of course, they could call for backup. But we all doubt that they would do it, because then they would have to report to their superiors that they were afraid to go investigate because they heard a baby. They would not do that, because it makes no sense, because of the embarrassment, because of the blow to their ego. They would probably rather save their own skins and ignore it. That's the hope we're all hedging everything on anyways.

People flood out of the huts that encircle the armoury. It was really rather stupid of the rich people to make their armoury right within the poor neighbourhood. Well, what's stupid on their part is a godsend on our part. Perhaps literally a godsend, by the way. The Mother of All has been sending us a lot of blessings as of late. Blessings that we would do well to make the most out of. Blessings that we are making the most out of.

All of us kids keep on playing with the babies, making them be as loud as possible, as the adults and teenagers around us are walking up to the armoury. The strong doors are locked with strong, sturdy locks. But my people have a secret. The art of lock-picking has been passed down through the resistance for generations. And now, everyone who is in the resistance has their piece of wire, and has unfettered access to the locks, no worries of guards coming to arrest them.

When they finally get the doors open, there is an audible sigh of relief from everyone. So far the plan is working. So far the plan is working perfectly. I dreamed that we would get this far. I dreamed that we would win. But there was always a part of my mind that always told me that no, we would not make it. We would not make it. We would not make it. Now, that part of my mind is weaker than it has ever been. It is more quiet than it has ever been. And centuries of oppression which hammered into me that I am nothing are being lifted right in front of my eyes.

The kids and I continue with our jobs as the older people around us continue with their jobs. They grab gun after gun after gun from the many racks. They grab bulletproof armour and shove it on. They grab crates full of ammunition and tie them to their backs. They prepare for the war that will be started within moments. And they succeed. They succeed. They keep on succeeding until there are almost two thousand armed people, scattered within the armoury. I can see them through the windows. There are also many people scattered around the armoury as well, on the streets and in huts.

They move silently. They work silently. They load their guns silently and make sure that Uni's voice can be heard all around, so that no guards come near us in this moment of truth. And no guards do come near us. They hear Uni's childish voice, as faint and distant as it is, and it strikes fear into their hearts. They think that the armoury guards are already seeing to this part of the city, they don't need to go there as well. And they leave us all alone.

We are armed. About two thousand of us are armed. That's about three percent of the population. But at the same time, we have as many guns as the guards have. We have as many guns as them, we have as many bulletproof vests, and we have way more people than they have. Everything is working towards our advantage. The rest of the people have spears. Spears carefully crafted of scrap metal that the people stole out of the scrap yard and cut with the resistance's stolen factory equipment and expensive candles. We have been practicing with them in secret.

The war has begun. The war that I never thought I would live to see in my lifetime. The war that I have dreamed of all my lifetime. The war that I will fight in.

The older kids take the younger ones to the safety of the huts. The safety of the special dug-out huts that we prepared to help the especially young shelter and stay safe during the war. And we go get ready.

———

The street is covered in bodies. The bodies of the people. The bodies of the guards. There are far more bodies of guards than there are bodies of people who fought. So many people who fought. Some of them are decked in armour, that they stole from the armoury, that fits them in a ramshackle kind of way. Some are decked in the common rags that my people wear, worn and thin and like the earth. They all are covered in blood, are dark with it. Some of the blood is new, fresh, red. I imagine that it would be warm to the touch. Some of the blood is old and darkened.

It's a horrific sight, one that makes me deeply sick to my stomach. I've known death. I've known death. I've seen so many loved ones pass away. But death of this caliber, thousands of people in the span of a few hours, bodies paving the streets, it's beyond anything I've ever known before. And it's gory. It's so, so gory.

Yet I'm not mourning the murdered martyrs the way I've mourned other people who left this world. Everyone who died here, everyone who died like this, they died on their feet. They died fighting for a better world. They didn't die because of neglect, because of poverty. They didn't die due to horrific working conditions or prejudice against their class. They died because they stood up. They stood up for what they believed in, they stood up for future generations, they stood up for a better world. And at the end of the day, that is so, so, so incredibly much better than dying quietly, than accepting your fate as a lesser person and letting death take you on the floor or at work.

Everyone who is dying here will be able to walk into the afterlife with their heads held high. They will be heralded as heroes, and they will be able to tell all their ancestors that they did not go down passively. They went down fighting, with their teeth bared, looking their oppressors dead in the eyes. And oh how deeply, deeply glorious that will be. And how deeply cathartic too, how satisfying to be able to come to the end of your life's story and to have it end with such bloody, bloody triumph.

Not that they deserve to die. Not that any of them deserve to die. Besides the guards of course. Just because they got murdered for standing up for what they believe in doesn't change the fact that they got murdered. It doesn't change the fact that each loss is a horrific loss. Each person on the ground had friends, had family, had neighbours. They had children in their lives. Children who will miss them to no end.

But the future generations will never again have to know the loss of their loved ones. And they will never again have to live lives worse than death, where their only hope is death. That is why all these people are fighting, all these people are giving up everything. And that is why I'm fighting too.

I've been lucky so far. My dark skin hides in the night, a night that is only illuminated by the glaring yet dispersed street lights. I'm young, so people are protecting me. And I've been able to get my hands on a gun, since I was so close to the epicentre of the robbery. But still, my heart thuds in my chest and fear flows in the rush of my veins, coating each molecule of my blood. I am more awake than I have ever been in my life. I am more alert than I have ever been in my life. And I am terrified.

There are gunshots all around me. From friends, from enemies, from unknown sources. The guns all sound the same but the shouts of the people do not. There are those shouting in rage, the sort of rage that only comes after living your whole life under the heels of those who think of you as less than an insect, who don't think of you as a living thing at all. There are other people also shouting in rage. The rage that comes with living your whole life thinking other people are beneath you. There are people screaming in pain, wailing in grief, and even laughing in victory. It's a cacophony of chaos and I hate it and I love it. But more than anything, it makes me feel alive.

I get shot in the chest. But my bulletproof vest protects me. It's a close call nonetheless. I've been shot many times before. Each time has sent a jolt of fear racing through me. I shoot back in the direction of the black-clad soldier whose gun the shot came from. I can tell that he's a guard from the superiority glinting sharply in his eyes. The bulletproof glass on his helmet has long since been shattered. But he's still heavily armed. But my bullet hits him right in the jaw, horrifically disfiguring his face. He gives off a garbled scream. I shoot him again, in the head to make sure that he's really, properly dead. And then I cheer loudly. This is my second kill tonight.

But it's a broken sort of cheer. As much a scream of anguish as it is a cheer of joy. This is my second kill tonight. I'm only thirteen.

I guess I shouldn't have done that though. A hail of bullets comes flying at me from the right. I run to go duck behind a hut. And, thank the gods, my armour got everything. I thank the Mother and Her Child for just a moment before I scan my surroundings. I cannot ever let my guard down, even a bit. Because they're out to kill me. They're out to kill all of us. And I cannot let them. There is chaos all around me. Bodies falling. People screaming. I look for who to shoot next. I'm half cold blooded killer, half screaming child. But I do not know which half is which.

I see a guard shoot at an unarmed man. I guess he lost all his spears. The man falls to the ground, a fountain of blood gushing out from his thigh. I almost throw up. I do not even know this man. I do not know him, but I have to avenge him. I shoot at the guard. It doesn't pierce through his armour, but it does get his attention. Which is not good for me. I duck back behind the wall, catching my breath. If I go after him again I might die. Is that worth it? Of course it is. I cannot be a coward. Not now. Not after we have collectively done so much. I whisper a short prayer before leaning back out to shower him in a hail of billets.

Unfortunately this leads me to be showered in my own hail of bullets, which he fired as soon as he saw me. My armour holds strong, but it doesn't protect me this time as a sharp, burning, tearing bullet digs into the bottom of my rib cage, between two of my right ribs. I scream. I burns. It burns. It burns so much. White hot, searing pain that flows from my wound out to my whole body. I look at the man who shot me. He looks smug. None of my bullets pierced through his armour.

But right before I pass out, I see a woman impaling the guard with her spear, from behind. His face flashes with surprise, then horror. I guess I distracted him enough for her to be able to sneak up on him. I smile, and that's the last thing I ever do. And the last emotion I feel in this life is a sweet, hot, darkened sort of vengeance. A vengeance borne of pain. A vengeance bearing victory. It was worth it, it was worth it, it was all so very worth it. We will be free. We will all be equal.

———

I awaken to a realm made up completely of something intangible, something untouchable, something deeply intimate, something intimately beautiful. I wake up and this is the first time in my life where I have felt at peace, felt free from the horrors plaguing me. I am holding baby Universe close in my arms. They are infinitely beautiful, as they always are. In their eyes I see each person, each creature, each plant and rock and piece of soil. I see the sky and the water and the ground and the fire. And I see love. Universe is happy in my arms. Happier than I have ever seen them. They smile, and there is no brokenness behind that smile. They are happy. Everything is right. And I am about to enter a new beginning, along with the world.

My heart thuds in my chest. I find it hard to breathe, as if there is a stone lodged in my throat and I cannot force air past it. I feel as if my entire body has turned to stone. Hunger gnaws in my stomach, burns up through my chest, flows down my arms and legs, grates over my throat. I cannot breathe. I feel as if the entire world is on my shoulders. I feel as if I am nothing. I feel as if I am everything.

I kneel alongside the rows and rows of worshippers, the whole town gathered in the rolling square. The young and the old and the sick and the healthy alike. All together. All kneeling. All together for now. For now. For now. And us being together gives me a sense of strength. It gives me the ability to face this horror that we are all faced with.

On everyone's face is etched the same mask of reverence and worship. Everyone's mask is perfect, is flawless, is impenetrable. But I can see beyond their masks. Because I really look at their eyes. I really look into their eyes and deep, deep inside those dark pools is terror. Each and every time, it's terror. And a cascade of other emotions, too many and too complicated to be named.

Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to leave the group. Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to shoulder the burdens of the whole town in their fragile, thin arms. They will carry the stress of having to carry us all, they will bear the responsibility of all of our fortunes and fates. All of our fortunes and fates. That is too much for anyone to handle. But handle it, we must. And we must handle it with dignity and grace, no matter how fake the dignity and the grace is.

Time seems to still all around me as I kneel in my place, in my carefully-positioned place in the straight row that is part of the dozens upon dozens of rows all stretching out before us. I feel as if I have been kneeling here forever. I feel as if I will be kneeling here forever. But still, I'd rather kneel here forever than be chosen.

———

"We have to make do with what we have," Marsita is telling us through her all-consuming tiredness. I can see her exhaustion in her voice, in her eyes, in her face, in her posture, in her body language, in everything. She is trying to hold on, to her life, to her fight, to her will. She's trying for all of us. But last week her husband died. It's hard to be strong.

I am sitting in the clay hut of Marsita, a few huts over from my own hut. There is a ragged collection of people from the community here. We're all leaning against the walls, barely able to stay sitting up, letting all of our energy go. Scattered across the laps of the older ones, there are young children. Shajira, Baira, Namaro, and Kyare.

They are almost limp as they lean against their adults. I have little baby Alara on my lap. She is sweet and soft and thin and limp. But she's breathing. She is still breathing. I feel her breath against me, and for this I am beyond grateful,

Normally, someone would be cooking on the clay stove at the end of the little room. But right now there is nothing to cook.

"We should have more," Shajira says, looking out into the sky with her dark eyes. She holds an anger within her. I can tell that she holds an anger within her. That is not good.

"Now, don't blame anyone," Ereeth says in an exhausted, calm sort of way, the candlelight reflecting on his silvery gray hair. "We don't need to cause unneeded rifts."

"I'm not blaming anyone," Shajira replies, blowing a tuft of black curls away from her eyes. "I'm just saying, it's not fair."

Beside us, Jasey is sleeping. I watch his breathing, slow and shallow, rising and falling almost imperceptibly. There is something foreboding about the way the candlelight of the dark room settled over his peat-dark skin.

"Are you blaming the great and powerful Lady?" Marsita's voice carries alarm within it. And I totally understand why. No-one can blame the Lady about anything. Lest she hear and curse us. But still, she cursed us already, with our harvests failing and our year spent hungry. She cursed us already and I do not know how she could curse us any more.

"I'm not," Shajira replies, I'm not blaming her. I'm just blaming the situation."

"Do not even say what can be thought of as blame. For if she hears us, I know not what she'll do." There is protective alarm in my exhausted voice. I have to make sure that she stays safe. That she keeps all of us safe. Or, as safe as possible in a time like this.

"And, remember," Alaro adds in, "we cannot blame Darjo either. He's young. He's very young. And he had a great burden placed upon him those many months ago. He did the best that he could. He did the best that he could to please the Lady. And we should not place blame upon his young shoulders." Alaro's clay-red skin shines bright in the candlelight, almost like blood. and there is something slightly haunting to him.

"I'm not blaming him. I'm just blaming the situation." She presses on, sweetly, the young child, more oblivious than she should be of the danger that's all around her. Of the danger that's absolutely everywhere.

"Be careful," I warn her. "You should not be blaming anything. You should not be making it harder for us."

I keep my eyes on Jasey. He is still breathing in the smoke-tinted air. He is still lying on the hard clay floor of the hut. He's still sleeping, oblivious to the hunger and the hurting and the need and the death of the waking world. I almost wish that he stays asleep forever. Sleep is the only place where it doesn't hurt. It's the only place where nothing hurts. But no, no I do not wish that at all. We need him. Everyone needs him. We cannot do without him. I don't know why, but we cannot do without him. We need him to stay alive.

"Why can't we talk about how sad we are? Kyare asks.

"Because," I answer, "it's not safe."

"Because of the Lady?" They ask.

"Yes, sweetheart, because of the Lady," I respond. Hunger gnaws at my gut and twists apart my insides. I feel as if I have been scraped hollow, scraped raw, left bleeding. But I feel like this all the time. This past few months I have been feeling like this all the time.

"Why does the Lady listen to us?" They ask with their tired, youthful voice.

"The Lady does not listen to us all of the time," Alaro explains. "But you never know when she might be listening. You never know when she might be looking in. If we want to have a good harvest next year, if we want to eat next year, we must make sure that we do not displease her. And that means that we must be grateful for everything that she gives us." Alaro's words come out slowly, with many breaks in between. I understand why. In this stretch of time, they really sink in, true and necessary and terrible.

"But how do we know when she's looking?" Kyare asks. There is something curious in their voice. Something dreading. And something just, lightly hopeful.

"We don't know," Ereeth responds. "We don't know if she's looking in on us. We don't even know if she can look in on us. But her power is too great to rule it out as a possibility. She controls the harvest. Who knows what else she controls?"

"Anyways," Marsita cuts in, "this conversation is getting far too negative, my young ones. Why don't we move on to another more positive line of talking?

"Like what?" Kyare asks. There is something hopeless in their tone.

"I don't know," Ereeth replies, "maybe we could talk about next year when the harvest will be better. What are we going to do then?"

"I'll make rice cakes," Namaro tells us. Sweet, little Namaro. Sweet little all of them. Each and every single one. "I love rice cakes."

"I love rice cakes too," Marsita tells him. "Rice cakes are so delicious. And they're so soft and fluffy and lovely. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice cakes. Enough to make up for all the hunger this year."

"I hope so too," Namaro agrees. "I hope we get lots and lots of food. I love food. I miss food." Sweet kid. I relate to him, I relate to him so much. I'm sure we all miss food. I'm sure we all miss it so much. Not that we don't have any food. No, the Lady is too merciful for that. But we don't have enough. We don't have nearly enough.

"I miss food too," I tell him. "I miss it so much. But I'm holding on to hope. You have to hold on to hope too. You all have to hold on to hope. Hope is all that we have after all. Hope is all that keeps us going." The baby is my arms is still breathing. Still breathing. I am so glad that she is getting to rest. Sweet baby.

"Do you think we'll have a good harvest next year? I hope we do." Namaro's young, dark voice has a hint of lightness in it.

"I think we will," Alaro replies. "Just hold on hope."

"Yes," Ereeth echoes, "hold on hope."

"We have more good years than bad years," Marsita tells everyone.

"But we still have bad years, though," Baira tells us. And there is something imploring in her adorable little voice that does not pronounce everything properly. There is something amazing as well.

"We do, Baira, we do," I tell her. "But we can't dwell on the bad years. We have to dwell on the good years."

"We have to dwell on whatever we have," Alaro adds in.

"And we have to be grateful," I finish. "We have to be grateful to the Lady for all that she blesses us with. Do you think you can be grateful?"

"I think I can," Baira replies, voice thoughtful. "I think I'll try to be. But it's hard sometimes."

"Of course it's hard sometimes," Marsita acknowledges. "Of course it's hard sometimes. But it's okay. You're okay. You'll get through it. We all will. And you'll find your ways to be grateful and to count your blessings despite it all. You'll see that there's a lot that we have, a lot that the Lady gives us."

"Like what? What does she give us?" Baira asks. I can tell that she wants to listen to us. I can tell that she wants to be grateful. But she doesn't know how. And that's understandable, that's so understandable. A lot of us don't know how sometimes.

"She gives us good harvests," Ereeth replies. "And she gives us all the things we need in order to have good harvests. She teaches us to be humble and grateful and thank her for all she gives us. You have to be grateful for that."

"I'll try my best to," Baira replies. There is something determined and resolute in her little voice. In her big, dark eyes. And I'm proud of her for trying her best. I'm really proud.

"Good job," I tell her. "That's all you need to do. You just need to try your best. That's all we all do. We all try our best and we do what we can. And guess what? It's enough to keep the Lady happy, most of the times." My words come out slowly. I try not to put an emphasis on most of the times, but it happens anyways. Most of the times is the key phrase here. Our best is not enough to keep the Lady happy all of the times. We have too many years when it's not enough. Far too many.

We keep talking, trying our best to ignore the hunger and the aching that's inside of us. The conversation is a good distraction. It's a good distraction from the pain. But it doesn't do enough, it doesn't go far enough, not nearly far enough to help us all. But still. Still I am very glad and grateful for the people around me. I am grateful for the words that flow on all around me and the words that flow into my ears and through my mind. I'm grateful for the words that flow from me. I'm grateful for the fact that the others listen to them, that they hear me, that we all hear each other.

I'm grateful for the baby in my arms and I am so, so worried about her. She was born in the midst of a bad year, in the midst of famine and hunger and need. And she never got enough nourishment in her life. She never got enough. I hope so strongly, hope so hard, that she doesn't die. I hope with all my being that she lives to see better years, that she lives to see years that help her grow and thrive and bloom and flourish into the radiant individual that she is meant to be, that she already is.

We keep talking, we all keep talking, until one by one we start to fall asleep. There is nothing else to do. It's too dry to raise crops and there's no food to preserve and prepare and cook. All we have to do is talk. Which in its own way is a strange sort of blessing.

I look towards Jasey, as the night is pouring darkness in through the cracks of the shutters. And he's not breathing. He's not breathing. I move immediately to tell the others.

"Jasey's not breathing." My voice comes out small and stilted. It comes out forced and squeaky.

"What?" Marsita's voice is dreading and determined and purposeful. It's calm in a untraceable sort of, in a strong sort of way.

"He's not breathing," I reply. I still find it hard to force the words out of my mouth.

Marsita goes to kneel over Jasey. She puts one dark hand on his dark neck. And she feels for a pulse.

"There's nothing there," she says all at once.

———

We are stone-silent here, kneeling, all of us terrified, all of us hiding it. We have been kneeling here for what feels like hours, feels like days, feels like years, though it probably only has been a few dozen minutes. The time flows in a trickle, and the breath flows heavy and ragged down my chest, like I am breathing in a collection of hard, sharp-edged stones instead of air.

We are waiting for the moment. For the moment in which she will come. The moment in which the Lady will come. The moment when everything will start, and we will have to start praying with everything we have for the unlucky person who gets chosen. Praying to soothe them. Praying to give them strength. Praying to give them victory. So that they might please the Lady. So that they might save our town and our harvest for one more year.

I kneel here until my knees hurt. And I make sure to not show any of the hurt on my face.

All at once there is a bright flash of light all across the whole sky. It's too bright. Too painful. It hurts to see. But I keep my eyes open. I struggle and I fight to keep my eyes open anyways, through all the hurt, because she needs to see us looking at her. She needs to see our eyes upon her. Immediately, as quickly as the world got bright, it gets pitch-dark. And there's something dreadful in this darkness, darkness in the middle of the day. There is something deeply unnatural to it. Still I keep my face a mask of reverence. I don't let any of my fear and my trepidation show through.

Standing in front of us, on the large, ornately-carved stone stage in the middle of the town, is the Lady.

She wears a shimmering dress of bright, sparkling red. It's sleek and falls beautifully, falls perfectly on her. Clasped around her waist is an intricately-carved, flowing and swirling belt of gold. Hung from her neck is a fine golden chain adorned with a gold-framed pendant of a bright ruby. She has a youthful look to her and black hair as straight as a beam. She is beautiful. Far too beautiful. Far too beautiful for it to possibly be natural. There is something deeply uncanny about the way that she looks. There is something deeply uncanny about all of her.

"Your reverence," old woman Marila, one of the town elders, speaks out in a voice that sounds so unafraid, in a voice that is hiding so much fear. "Welcome to our humble town. We thank you deeply and profusely from the bottom of our hearts for gracing us all with your magnificent presence. May we be able to show our deep and humble gratitude towards you for all that you have done for us and for all that you are. Your reverence."

"Indeed." The Lady's voice is clear and peaceful and supercilious, as it always is. There is so much highness and dignity in the way that she speaks. Her words flow out so smoothly, so loudly, as they always do. And there's something deeply unnatural about it. There's something deeply unnatural about it all. Like everything else about her, her voice is just too flawless, too beautiful, too perfect. But I try to not let my fear show in any way as I stay there, kneeling, listening to her words.

"Our bright and radiant Lady," Marila begins, "for what purpose have you graced our village with your presence?"

"I come to have a communion with one chosen member of your town. I come to test how your town is keeping to its virtue and its honour."

"Thank you, my Lady, for blessing us with such a rare and treasured opportunity. It is my greatest hope that we do not let you down."

"My expectations for your town and its people are quite elevated. There is a lot for you all to live up to."

"But of course, my Lady. Your expectations are high and glorious and it is my deepest, sincerest hope that we are all able to live up to your lofty desires."

"Allow me to look through the crowd, now. I must select a fine and upstanding citizen of the town with whom to carry out my communion."

"But of course, my Lady. Take all the time that you need."

She scans over the crowd with here serene, impartial, menacing eyes. There is something too smooth about the way she looks over all of us. There is something too probing.

I wonder, briefly, if I will be the one who gets chosen. I hope to the universe that I am not. I cannot handle that type of pressure. No-one can. But I pacify my racing heart with the knowledge that there are thousands of us here. There are thousands of us here in the town. The likelihood of me being picked is very slim.

She looks through the crowd for what seems like an eternity. I wonder what is going on in her head. I don't think I'll ever be able to know what she thinks. I don't think I'll ever be able to even imagine it. She is so, so very different from all of us, from her unnatural beauty to her lack of fear to the calm, cool way in which she regards everything. There is an untouchability to her, as if all the cares that us humans have merely pass by her as interesting ideas. She looks through the crowd.

She eventually settles on a person. And that person is me. Her gaze holds me longer than it has held anyone else up to this point. My heart stops in my chest. I feel as though I am about to throw up. This can't be. This can't be. This can't be. But it is. It is no matter how much I want it to not be. It is no matter what I want.

"Calen Agua," she calls out, eyes dead set on me.

I bow my head low.

"Yes, my Lady?" I reply, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. Keeping my voice as meek and humble and submissive as I possibly can.

"I choose you to be my companion for the harvest ritual that we are about to undertake."

"Yes, my Lady," I reply. "I am deeply, overwhelmingly honoured and humbled that you have chosen to select me out of all the masses of people. It is a deep honour." My words, of course, are a lie. But I lie as convincingly as I can, extracting all my effort into making sure that she does not sense even the idea of a lie behind my words.

"You may come join me now," her voice rings out clear and terrible.

"Yes, my Lady. Of course."

I rise. And my legs want to shake, my knees want to buckle, my breath wants to come out ragged and jagged and uneven. But I force everything to keep calm and collected and contained, to be smooth and fluid as I make up the distance between myself and the stage.

I am more deeply, more entirely, more horrifically terrified than I ever have been at any point in my entire life. The profound, all-consuming dread cracks and crumbles everything inside of me, at the same time as turning my insides into stone. I feel like I am getting hit by lightning over and over and over again. I feel like I am crumbling to ashes. I feel like I want to throw up. I want so deeply, so badly, to throw up. But I can't.

I force myself to the stage on my numb, rubbery legs. And I climb the stone steps, cold and harsh and piercing under my bare feet. And everything feels frozen, screaming cold and cloying, suffocating hot both at the same time. Everything feels completely unreal, as if I am moving through a nightmare. Yet everything feels overwhelmingly, undeniably real, more real than anything has ever felt before.

Finally, after what seems like forever, my long and weighted walk is at its end. The Lady towers in front of me. And I force myself to look at her. I force myself to look at her and gulp down all the multitude of feelings that I am feeling. I force myself to hide.

I twist my lips into as close to a perfectly realistic smile as I can possibly make. And I kneel down in front of her.

Everything relies on me now. The town's fate relies on me. The harvest relies on me. The lives, health, and survival of innumerable people rely on me. And I can't take this. I can't take the pressure. But I have to. It's not my choice. It's my duty. I only hope that I am strong enough. That I can save them all. I have to save them all.

———

Darjo and I are washing clothes by the river. It's a Saturday, a day that is mostly not for work, a day that is mostly for rest. But both of us have washing to do and we thought that we might as well do it. We might as well get it out of the way. And so we're here, just the two of us, together on the sloping, silt-covered banks of the river.

It's beautiful here. The water stretches out bright and calming and perfect as far as the eye can see in each direction. It reflects the sunlight in bright rippled waves. It soothes my soul and fills me with a sense of purpose. I love the river. It seems to talk to me every time I am near it, every time I come to it for help. The river feels like an older brother or sister or sibling. And I am so grateful to have some time now, here, beside the river.

The universe knows that I need to soothe my soul. I need to find some solace and some peace and some way to ignore the hunger within me, some way to ignore the fear and the grief and the pain all around me. Some way to make this nightmare of a year just a little more palatable. Because we all know that I will have to gulp down this horror of a year no matter what.

Not that I blame Darjo, not that I blame him at all.

"But I blame myself," he says to me, as we are washing our clothes. "I'm the one who disappointed her. I'm the one who disappointed you all."

"You tried your best, my soul's brother. You tried your best and you did what you could."

"It doesn't matter whether I tried my best or not because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to save you all." There is something profoundly haunted in his voice. And something profoundly haunting.

"We all know that it's very difficult to please the Lady. Nobody is blaming you. None of us are blaming you. Not at all."

"You should be blaming me." The guilt in his tone is almost tangible. I can almost reach out and touch it with my fingers. I feel so bad for him. So bad. He must be feeling so bad himself, must be feeling so much worse than the rest of us are feeling.

"We shouldn't be blaming you."

"Yes, you should. I'm the one who disappointed the Lady. I'm the one who displeased her. And because of this, the whole town has to suffer. The whole harvest has to die."

"We can get by. We are getting by. We can pick the berries and dig up the roots in the woods."

"But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. There are too many people and not enough woods to feed them all."

"We can get by."

"What about all the people dying? Can they get by? They're not getting by. What about all the families and neighbours and friends who are grieving. Can they get by?"

"I know. I understand. It's hard. But it's not your fault."

"How is it not my fault? The Lady chose me. She chose me to commune with her. And that meant that it was my responsibility to take care of you all and to please her so that she blesses the harvest."

"That's a lot of responsibility to take on. But you took it so well. You took it well and you did everything that you could. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you."

The water flows cool and clear against my hands, refreshing and rushing and altogether full of life. The sun shines warmly against my skin, warming me up from the inside. There is the lightest hint of a breeze and it flows in my hair. Today is beautiful. It's so beautiful. But inside my heart it is dark and wet and twisting. My emotions are not beautiful. Still, I am grateful for the beauty of this blessed day, and I'm grateful for all the ways that simple nature is trying to cheer us up.

"I'm going to kill myself," Darjo declares out softly to the river and to the sunlight and to me. My heart thuds in sympathy and sorrow.

"Please don't."

"I will. It's what I deserve. I've killed so many people. The blood of so many people is on my hands."

"Their blood is not on your hands. But if you kill yourself, your blood will be."

"My blood deserves to be. I've damned you all. I've hurt you all."

"Please don't."

"There's nothing that you can say to stop me from doing it."

Tears trek their way down my cheeks. And I don't stop myself from crying. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to cry. And I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to express my emotions. But I'm not grateful for the fact that I can't help. I cannot help dear, sweet Darjo and I cannot stop the guilt that he feels inside of himself. I can only watch him go, and try to give him whatever comfort I can until he does.

I feel so very helpless. So very, incredibly, unbearably helpless.

But I understand what he's feeling. I really do. I think, perhaps, if I was in a similar situation as him I would feel the same way.

We continue washing our clothes, the river's water cool against our hands. I think I can understand what he must be feeling. I can understand why he blames himself. I think he's carrying more perturbation this year than anyone else is. He's carrying more weight. He has been carrying this weight since the first moment that he got called to represent our town in front of the Lady. And we're all carrying weight in this awful, painful year. We're all carrying so much weight. And there's nothing we can do to lessen it. Nothing except for helping each other.

———

I am kneeling in front of the Lady. And, for the first time in my life, I am glad that my stomach is empty. Because if it wasn't, I don't know if I could keep myself from throwing up. Though I make sure to not let her know that. I have to act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm amazingly honoured to be in her magnificent and awe-striking presence. I have to make her believe it.

And she does believe it. I truly believe that she believes me as she looks down her nose and unfolds her lips out into a haughty, satisfied smile. She looks as carefree and supercilious as she always does. She looks as calm and as serious. There is nothing in her face that warns of disapproval. And I internally sigh with relief, just a tiny bit. It seems that, so far, I am pleasing her. It seems that, so far, I am doing good. Let's just hope I can keep it up.

She waves her clean, dainty, ivory hand, a motion through the air that is much too smooth to be natural. And the world around me goes white. I cannot see my people out of the corner of my eye anymore. I am cut off, alone. No-one can help me now.

The fear in my heart spikes sharp, stabbing through me. But I make sure that I keep kneeling there, I keep kneeling there, through all the terror I keep kneeling there and not showing any signs of my inner longings. But I want my people. I want them to at least be beside me.

The whiteness all around me glows brighter and brighter, until it is absolutely blinding to look at. I keep my eyes open, though the light is searing my eyes. And I keep my head slightly bowed though my head is throbbing in sharp pain. The light seems to be cutting through my soul, through the very fabric of myself. Yet still, I fight with everything that I have in order to not react.

Finally, the light dies down, and I find myself in the strangest place I have ever been in.

It's a large room, larger than I knew rooms could ever be, positively palatial. The floors are patterned in many colourful tiles, little flecks of darker colour dispersed through their light hues. The tiles are arranged in intricate patterns. The walls are covered in large paintings and fine tapestries everywhere I turn, except for the windows which are crystal clear and look out into an immaculately blooming garden.

There are fine statues of heroic figures and regal animals, positioned stylishly around the room. And all the walls are lined with large tables of dark, rich, intricately-carved wood. There is a silver fountain in the middle of the room and the ceiling is a mirror. Beside the fountain is a small, sleek crystal table with chairs made of blue gems. In the middle is a China tea set.

I take it all in but I force myself not to react, even to all the strangeness. This room does not do anything to calm my nerves. In fact, it makes me even more anxious that before. Because not only am I alone. Not only am I carrying the burden of my entire town. But also, I am in a place I don't recognize at all, as beautiful as it is. I am in a place that I can tell is not for me.

"You may rise." The Lady's voice holds no affection within it, but no anger either. Hearing her makes my heart leap to my throat. But I force myself to get up as fluidly and as gracefully as I can.

"Thank you, my Lady."

"First of all, what is your name, gender, and age?"

"My name is Calen and I am a man. I'm eighteen." I'm really a demiboy but I don't think she'd understand that. I don't want to risk it. Though lying is a risk too. But it's a risk I'll have to take often.

"Take a seat. Let us drink some tea." She walks to the small table beside the fountain, her red dress swaying slightly as she moves. Everything seems completely unreal to me. Completely unreal and unbearably, unrealistically real both at the same time. I follow her to the table.

"Thank you, my Lady. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to drink tea with you." I keep my voice even.

"You may pour the tea now," she replies.

"Yes, of course, my Lady." The China has patterns of all sorts of birds on it, and is ringed with geometrical patterns. I fill both our glasses with the light brown liquid.

"And I will take two sugars," she tells me. I scoop her the sugars. I don't take any myself.

"You may pass the sandwiches now," she commands, and I put one dainty sandwich on each of our plates.

We eat in silence for a little bit, me keeping my head slightly bowed throughout the whole thing. It's so hard for me to force food down my throat. But I do so anyways. The food is surprisingly delicious, and that makes it easier to eat, at least. I have to be thankful for the little blessings.

"So, are you enjoying the tea?" she asks me in a serene voice.

"Yes, my lady. It's the most delicious tea I have ever had." This is not a lie. "Thank you so much for your gracious generosity in sharing your meal with me." This part is a lie.

"And what of the sandwiches? Are you enjoying those?"

"Yes, my Lady. They are absolutely delicious. Thank you once again for your generosity in sharing them with me."

"And now, I suppose, we will move onto the questions of more value. How is the town doing?"

"We are doing alright, my Lady," I lie. "Things have been pretty hard due to the harvest last year but we are getting by pretty well. Thank you for asking me of the town, and thank you for your everlasting concern towards us." I'm not telling the truth. Of course I'm not telling the truth. If I told the truth I would doom everyone. But I can only hope that she doesn't see through my lie. I can only hope that she doesn't have information to the contrary.

"And the townspeople, what do they think of me?"

"They think very highly of you, my Lady. You are, after all, the one who blesses us with so many blessings. You are the one who gives to us all that we have and all that we need to live. You have blessed us with so many good harvests and bounty flows from within your hands. And for that we are grateful, deeply grateful. And we are humbled. Deeply humbled."

"And do they not believe that I am to blame for the years when the harvest is cursed?" There is a bit of an accusing edge to her voice. It makes my world go still for a moment. This is not good. This is really, really not good. But I hope I can save it.

"Not at all," I answer swiftly. "We do not blame you for a cursed harvest. For we know it is your choice. It is your choice whether to curse the harvest or whether to bless it. And it is your decision to make, not ours. You have a right and an entitlement to make the decision that you choose to make, and we are in understanding of that." I think up the answer to the question as lightning-fast as I can, and I hope that it's coherent.

"And what of the children? What do they think of me?"

"They are awestruck by your power and by your amazing abilities. They are grateful for your blessings. We are teaching them to be grateful for your blessings." The children in actuality do not like her at all, they're dead afraid. We try to stop them from expressing it, but we can't stop them every time. My mouth feels a little numb as I tell her the lie. I am dead afraid of being found out. But I do what I have to do and say what I have to say to keep my people safe.

"And how about you?" she asks, a touch of concern in her voice.

"What about me, my Lady?"

"Are you happy, in the moment?"

"Of course I am, my Lady." I force the words out of my dry, grating throat as calmly as I can. "It's beyond an honour to be in your presence and to be able to dine with you. It's beyond an honour and I am beyond thrilled." I feel like my lung is full of rocks. Like I'm forcing the air through their hard, rough edges. "Are you happy?"

"I am always happy," she replies smoothly. Unsettlingly smoothly. "And the town, is the town happy?"

"Yes, we are. We count our blessings and are blessed by all that you give us."

"What of the years when the harvest is cursed? Is the town still happy?"

"Why of course we are happy. Even if food is scarce, we have blessings. And we are used to years with meagre harvests. We have grown able to handle them. We know how to deal with years with limited food and how to still be happy despite it all."

"What of the people who die?"

"The deaths, too, we have grown used to. We have learned how to work through our emotions and how to rationalize death so that we do not feel grief at losing someone. We must be grateful no matter what fate gives us." Talking about the dead people is even, somehow, much harder than talking about everything else. The grief pangs in my heart and I have nowhere to put it. I have to struggle and fight with strength I never knew I possessed in order to keep emotion out of my voice. But I manage to get through it. Somehow, miraculously, I manage to get through it. Maybe because I have to. I absolutely have to.

"And the children," the Lady continues on, "are they happy?"

"Why of course they are," I answer as convincingly as I can, "you have blessed them with so much out of the kindness of your heart."

"The kindness of my heart, you say."

"Of course, my Lady. Your heart is so kind. You provide us with everything we have." I do not tell her that she does not give us the one thing that really matters, which is each other.

The Lady smiles slightly. My heart stills, holds its breath. Is this a good sign? Am I pleasing her? I hope so. I allow myself to release a breath that I didn't know I was holding.

"And what of my birthday?" Her voice is an overly-saccharine trill. "Do you celebrate my birthday?"

"Oh we do, my Lady. Of course we do. With much merriment and celebration, and with a big feast, just as we should. It is, after all, a deeply auspicious day."

"A feast? How do you pull off a feast on a year when the harvest has been cursed?" Her question sounds genuine, but still, I'm in treacherous waters. Still, I anticipated this. I practiced for this. I have an answer.

"We fastidiously save every morsel of food that we have for the feast, of course. Because it's such a joyous day. Of course we have to celebrate it in a joyous way."

"And what of the boy I had in here with me last year? How is he doing?" Darjo. She's talking about Darjo. Oh no.

"He died, I'm afraid." I fight to keep the grief out of my voice, out of my expression. I fight to keep my voice even, keep my breathing even.

"Oh, how did he die?" Her words are cool and mildly curious. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a tragedy. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a death.

"Well, you see, he died in an accident. He was scaling a tall tree with a knife and he got distracted." Got distracted. Sure, he got distracted. I won't say anything about how he willingly jumped off.

"And was he loyal, this Darjo?" Loyal? She chooses to ask if he's loyal? She speaks no words on the tragedy of his death? I hide my exasperation.

"Yes, my Lady. He was loyal to you until his last breath." Hopefully this is the answer she is looking for. It's a false answer but hopefully it's the answer she's been looking for.

"And how do you know that he was loyal till the end?"

I think of an answer lightning fast and I tell her what she wants to hear.

"Because, my Lady, he always talked about how glorious it was and what an honour it was to commune with you, my Lady."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. He was deeply grateful to the opportunity you gifted him with. But do not worry, he did not say anything that would give any details away about his interactions with you."

"I'm happy he didn't give any details away." There is something smirking hidden behind her voice. My whole body goes cold with dread.

"He would never, my Lady."

"Oh, I know he would never." There is something sly and secretive to the way she says that. I am keenly aware of all the danger all around me.

"So anyways," the Lady continues, "are your people learning the wisdom that I am imparting to you?"

"We are trying, my Lady. We are definitely trying very hard. It is difficult, though. All your lessons and all your wisdom are so high and refined and intricate and complicated. They are hard for us simple-minded, uneducated people to understand."

"That is to be expected, of course."

"But know, my Lady, that we are doing what we can to the best of our abilities."

"You must keep trying. The wisdom of my glorious race can help you build better lives and families."

"But of course, my Lady. Of course it can."

"Speaking of families, are you properly worshipful of my family?"

"But of course, my Lady." This isn't a total lie. We are worshipful of her family. But we are only worshipful because we have to be. Not for any other reason. "We may not know your family," I continue, "but we are of course worshipful to them. Anyone who is related to your grace and your glory must be equally graceful and glorious. Any background that you came from must be an amazing background. Your race has so much power and awesomeness. We would be remiss to not worship them."

"My family is quite marvellous," she agrees.

"But of course they are. Anyone related to you must be marvellous." This interrogation seems to be going well. But I need to stay alert. I need to stay alert. And I need to do everything exactly right. I need to do everything exactly right until I am allowed to go home again.

"And do you all work hard in order to please me?" I know what this question is about. It's about the vestments. Every Wednesday there are bags full of the most fine and rich clothes that magically appear on our streets. They are the garments of the Lady herself. We fastidiously wash them in an elaborate ritual that takes days, and return them to the Lady through the special gift fire at the church.

"Yes, of course, my Lady. We meticulously purify all your vestments according to the proper rituals. It is a very high honour for us." I tell the truth. I have to tell the truth. But of course I don't tell her about how difficult and worrying and frustrating the whole process is.

"And are you all grateful for the opportunity to work and please me with your work?"

"We are very thankful. We are always thankful. The opportunity to work for you and your greatness and your glory, to be of service to you and to show our gratitude, to do anything at all for you, it is the best opportunity of all. We are very grateful to be able to be of service to you. We truly love being able to be of service to you. We are grateful to be able to earn even a fraction of the many gifts that you give us."

I think I am navigating these swirling, rocky waters alright. I think I am doing well. This does not, of course, take away more than the barest edge of the all-consuming terror that I feel. Terror that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to exist. I've been feeling this terror since the moment she first called my name and I am still feeling it now. I hope I'm doing well. I hope I'm pleasing her. I have to do well. I have to please her.

"I have an important question, though." There is something dark inside her voice. My throat seizes up and I feel like vomiting.

"Yes, my lady?" I fight hard, so very hard, to keep everything I'm feeling deep down under me. So deep that it will never be shown.

"A relative of mine told me that your people lie to me and that you merely say anything to make me approve of you miserable lot."

Oh my universe. Oh my universe. Oh my universe. I'm damned. How can I salvage this?

"My lady," I start, lying, "I do not think that this is the case. You see, people like us are simple and uneducated and stupid. We are all very simple-minded. Too simple-minded to lie. Too simple-minded to create intricate lies snd stick with them. Not in a remotely convincing way at least."

"That does seem true," she agrees.

"And besides," I choose my words very carefully, "we would never lie to you. We trust you. We trust you and all your great teachings and your benevolence and your grace. We have no reason for lying to you."

"That is what I thought as well. But my relative seemed really rather convinced. Are you saying that my own family member lied to me?" I hate the direction that this is going. I have no idea if I'll be able to salvage this. But still, I have to try. I have to try.

"Lied to you? Why of course not. Of course they didn't lie to you. But perhaps they were fed false information from someone else. Maybe they were manipulated by someone else. Of course, of course they must be a very intelligent person and would not be misinformed easily. Perhaps the person who fed them this wrong information was a master manipulator and manipulated your relative very skillfully and very well."

"That does seem to be a likely case," she concedes. Oh thank you. Thank you. Thank the universe.

"Yes," I agree, "we are far too simple and small-minded to lie convincingly."

"And why should I believe your words over her's?" Damn. What do I do? Everything inside me is a strange, hollow, scraping feeling. Everything inside me is a distant, silent and muffled screaming.

"My Lady." I do what I can to keep my words perfectly even. "My Lady, you can believe whomever you choose to believe, whomever you want to believe. Of course you can believe your relative if you choose to. But I am simply stating what I know. Our people do not have the complex mental capacity that your people have, that you have. Our people do not possess the mental capacities to lie very well." I lie as well as I possibly can. It's the only way to save my people. The only way.

"And have you ever tried to keep anything a secret?" she asks, hopefully, thankfully changing the topic of conversation. Not that this is anything like any other conversation though.

"Secrets? Between the people of this town? No, we love to gossip. We gossip about anything and everything. Any piece of information someone knows or thinks, everyone knows within a matter of weeks." And it's the truth I'm telling. It's really the truth this time. This time being the key words.

"I see. So you are able to speak accurately on the thoughts and feelings of the whole town?"

"I am. We share everything. There is nothing secret between us." I hope she bought my lie about us not lying. I so, so deeply and achingly hope that she bought it.

"And are you teaching the children of the town to serve me?" I'm so beyond grateful that she seems to have put that topic of conversation behind us.

"Yes, my Lady, I respond smoothly. And it's a fake smoothness. But it's necessary.

"We are teaching the children to serve you and to worship you and to work hard purifying your clothes for you." The cleaning ritual has special roles that the children need to take. Special roles that the children hate doing. That any child would hate doing.

"And what do the children think, of serving me?"

"They are deeply humbled and grateful for the opportunity to serve and worship you. They truly treasure it very much. They think you're absolutely amazing and very beautiful and they love working for you." I think my lie is convincing. I had put in a lot of practice towards learning how to lie properly. Everyone in the town has. Even the children. Though thankfully, they're never chosen. Only people who are adults, who have mastered the art of lying, are chosen.

"They think I'm beautiful?"

"Yes. Very much so, my Lady."

She smiles. And her smile is wide and prideful and seems to me to be very genuine. This is good. This is really good.

"And what of you?" she asks. "Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"Do I think you're beautiful? My Lady, you are the most radiant and beautiful being I have ever seen. Your beauty is flawless and beyond compare. I have never witnessed anything at all as beautiful as you." I pour as much awe and humility into my voice as I can.

"And do you think I am gracious?" she asks, small hints of mirth on her voice.

"I think you're beyond gracious, my Lady. I think that the grace that you have is absolutely indescribable and far, far greater and more glorious than anything I have ever seen. I think everything about the way in which you conduct yourself inspires awe and worship." I keep taking occasional small bites out of my sandwich and small sips of my tea. This food is really much more delicious than anything I have ever tasted before.

"And would you follow my orders?"

"But of course. Anything that you want me to do, I would do in a blink."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Then prove it." She puts her hand flat against the belly of the teapot. Steam starts flowing out of the spout and I can tell that the tea is very hot.

"Pour yourself a cup of tea," she instructs, "and drink it all in one sip."

I silently do as she asks, pouring the steaming tea into my teacup. I am afraid, but I know that I must do this. I know that I have no choice, I can only hope that I'm brave enough. Steeling myself against the pain, I move the cup to my lips and tilt it towards me. It burns my lips, my mouth, and my throat, but I force myself to swallow. It sears me all the way down. Then I force myself to take another painful gulp, then another, then another, until the tea is all gone and I can let my burned mouth and throat rest.

"Impressive," the Lady comments impassively.

"Thank you most graciously," I reply politely.

"And what of the townspeople? Would they follow me just as well as you have?"

"They would without thinking, my Lady. I know for certain that they would also." I force myself to speak evenly through my abused throat.

"I am done my meal," the Lady begins elegantly, "and I think we are done our conversation. I will send you back now. Come, kneel in front of me."

I am immensely thankful that it's over and I am aching to see my people again, to run into their arms. I move to a kneeling position beside the Lady's chair.

———

I am lying on the floor along with everyone in the family, trying to fall asleep through my weary body and my aching gut. It's cold, but the body heat around me is keeping me warm. It's dark out, and the sky is clouded over, with no moon or stars. Beside me is my nine-year-old sister Anali, and she is so soft and sweet and warm against my body. I am so, so unimaginably thankful to the universe that I am having this opportunity to hold her and be with her.

"Calen," she whispers, careful not to wake the others all around us, "are you awake?"

"I am. How about you?"

"I'm awake. I just can't sleep."

"Aww, sweetheart, why not?"

"Because, Calen, I'm so hungry."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry." I keep my voice low and soft and compassionate in the blanketing darkness of the night.

"It's not fair."

"You're right, it's not." In the silence and the secrecy of this moment, I feel like I'm able to agree with her. I feel like it's safe to agree with her.

"Why does the Lady curse the harvest?"

"It's because the town displeases her. The representative of the town that she chooses and speaks with displeases her."

"That's not fair."

"It's really not. But you can't blame the representatives. They try their very best."

"It must be so very scary talking to the Lady."

"It really must be scary, you're right. She holds so much power. So much power over all of our lives."

"Why does she want us to be hungry?"

"Because we didn't respect her enough. We didn't listen to her enough."

"That's not fair, Calen."

"It's really not." I hug her slightly tighter near me. I feel her breathing against me. I feel the warmth that signifies that she has life. "Anali," I start, "I never want you to be hungry. Never, ever, no matter what. But I don't have any power. I don't have any power and I wish I had power and I wish I could help you."

"I wish I could help you too, Calen. I don't want you to be hungry no matter what. I don't want anyone to be hungry."

"I don't want anyone to be hungry either sweetheart." She's so soft and young and sweet. She's so fragile and delicate. She's so kind. So, so very kind. I wish she had power. But she doesn't.

"If I was the Lady I would bless every harvest no matter what."

"Just as you should, my girl. Just as you should. But you're not the Lady. So please try to focus on doing what you can."

"What can I do?"

"Try your best to be kind to everyone. Try your best to love everyone. Just like you're already doing."

"But that's not enough." There is a slight, heart-wrenching whine in her voice.

"You're right, sweetheart." I try to soothe her. "It's not enough. It's not enough. But it's something that we can do."

"Do you think the harvest next year will be blessed?" There's something slightly hopeful about the way that she speaks.

"I hope so. I really do hope so."

"I miss feeling full."

"I really miss it too."

"I really miss not being worried about everyone." She stresses the 'worried.' I understand so well how she feels.

"I miss it too. I miss knowing that everyone is safe."

"It hurts me more, knowing that my family and my friends and my community isn't safe. It hurts me more than my own hunger does."

"That's understandable. I feel exactly the same way. You're such a good soul."

"You too."

"Thanks."

"You don't deserve any of this."

"You don't either. You don't deserve all this need and this hurt and this grief."

"Neither do you."

"Thanks."

"Do you think the Lady will show mercy?"

"It depends. I don't know. I hope so."

"Have there ever been multiple years with no harvest, all together?"

"There have, but it was before you were born."

"I don't think I could stand another year like this. Another year right on top of this one."

"I don't think I could either. We just have to hold onto hope."

"And what if our hope is misplaced?"

"Then we just have to stay strong and get through it."

"What if I lose you? I don't want to lose you." She sounds like she's crying. Well, there are tears in my own eyes too. We can cry together. We can be together. We can take these infinitely precious moments that we have together, because who knows if we'll have any more.

"I don't want to lose you either. But hold on to hope. Please hold on to hope. It's all we have."

My sister takes my hand that's on her chest into her own hand. And we just stay like that for a little while.

"Are you asleep?" she finally asks me.

"Not yet. How about you?"

"Obviously not."

"I'd there anything else you want to talk about?"

"Who do you think will get picked by the Lady next year?"

"I don't know."

"I'm worried."

"Why are you worried? You're far too young to get picked. You know you're far too young to get picked."

"I know, but what if the person who gets picked fails?"

"Then it wouldn't be their fault. It wouldn't be their fault at all."

"But I hope they succeed."

"Me too."

"They've got a really big job in front of them."

"They do in fact have a really, really big job."

"I hope they succeed. I can't stand another year like this. I can't stand another year of hungry babies and dying."

I stroke her hair, and sing her a soft lullaby to help her get to sleep. The night is still and cool around us.

———

I kneel in front of the Lady, on the oddly warm, unnaturally warm tile floors. I keep my eyes down and my thudding heart under wraps. I keep myself as calm as I can be, outwardly. Inside, joy and dread and hope and apprehension all twist together in an unholy, delirious, indescribable mix. I don't know if I succeeded or not. I don't know if I succeeded. I don't know if I failed.

The world around me gets brighter and brighter. Once again, I fight to keep my eyes open through it all. But the pain in my eyes is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I keep myself staring towards the ground even though I can see nothing but pain. I force myself to keep going.

Just a few moments longer, and I should be clear and free.

The light does fade in time, though I have no idea how much time, and I am met with the soft, clouded gray skies around the field of the town. Already memory is rapidly leaving me, my memory of the events that had just passed, just as I knew it would. But the feelings are not leaving me. The feelings are not leaving me at all. I sigh in the slight relief that comes with the ordeal being over, and force myself to stand up. I look around, and see Klaro walking towards me.

"Calen!" He exclaims, "You're back!"

"I am," I reply, giving him a bright, shining smile. I am so, so very relieved to be home again.

I can't help myself, I bolt towards him. He opens up his arms and catches me in a strong, tight hug. And it is at this moment that I finally allow myself to fall apart. I finally allow myself to fall apart like I've been longing to do ever since the fateful moment my name was called. I break out into sobs, ugly-crying with tears streaming from my eyes and my whole body trembling violently.

"There, there," Klaro soothes me. He holds me tightly in his strong arms. Provides a rock for me to cling to in my sea of infinite, swirling emotions. "There, there. You're home now. You're home now and I have you. We all have you."

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

I walk through the green undergrowth, the world around me glowing green as sunlight shines through the crowns of leaves towering above me. I love it here. I love it here so much. But they must not know I'm here. The lord and his men must not know I'm here.

I dig through the brush all around me, on the hunt for herbs to tie under the skirt of my dress and sneak back into my hut. I look for herbs to conduct magic with. Magic that is, completely and absolutely, proscribed for people like us.

You see, magic is only allowed to be practiced by the nobles and royals of this land. But that doesn't change the fact that a secret network of magic users and teachers exists. That doesn't change the fact that secret folk magic practices are created and spread and added onto and perfected, that this has been happening for years. It doesn't change the fact that people still need healing and protecting, for them and for their crops and livestock. And it doesn't change the fact that us regular people have to make magic, no matter what the risks are.

I kneel down on the soft, loamy ground as I come face to face with the plant I need, a short, leafy shrub whose tubers are needed in a protection spell for new babies. I dig my hands into the dirt, the task being far too delicate to use a shovel. I feel around, oh so slowly, until I find a tuber. I break off the tuber, and store it away underneath my skirt. I only need one, and the plant needs all the rest. I pack the dirt I displaced back into its proper place before watering the plant from my water skin.

"Thank you for your gift," I whisper to it, bowing my head.

I walk on through the forest, trying to find where the plants I need could be, based on their optimal growing conditions. Alanthi grows on downward slopes, and so I walk my way through the valley, watching my step so that I do not trample on any plants as I go. I must walk softly on the earth. I must be careful towards her.

The Alanthi bush rises wild and jagged and high above me. And I softly part its branches to reach the green buds that grow inside the guarded exterior of the plant. I gather up a few, no more than what I need, and I put them in the same place as the tuber. I bow to the plant, and thank it for its gift. And I walk on.

In a matter of a few hours, I have collected everything that I sought out to collect. All the medicine that will make the people of my village healthy. And I am walking homewards, to the little hut on the edge of the town that I share with the other magic users.

I am sad that I am leaving the forest, the forest that creeps to the very edge of the town with its protective cover, the forest that can always calm my heart no matter what. But I know that I have much more work to do. I know that I will be back within a few hours.

In the hut, I am met by Cuthbert, who is cutting up his herbs for the potion that he is working on. I put a small metal pan over the great hearth at the centre of our hut and I fill it with water from the stream. Then I place all my herbs inside and allow them to soak.

The stream water is clean and clear and fresh and cool, the perfect water to make a potion for a baby with.

"Is this for Alexa and Katia's new baby?" Cuthbert asks me.

"It sure is."

"I can go give it to the child. That will leave you free to go to this afternoon's meeting. I know how much it meant for you to go."

"Oh, thank you, Cuthbert!" I exclaim. "You're so kind."

"No problem," he replies, smiling to me.

I braid my dark, frizzled hair quickly and put on my boots again. I guess I'll be seeing the forest again sooner than I thought.

The meetings don't have a set location. They just occur wherever the forest decides that they will occur. This is to keep all of us safe, since if no-one knows where the meetings are, no-one can be tortured for information. No-one can give us away.

So I follow the flow of the forest and I let it pull me to wherever it is pulling me to. I follow the flow of the forest and I walk through hills and valleys and streams and thickets. I walk by nests and burrows and springs and logs. And I end up exactly where I need to be. I end up in a large circle formed by all the other witches in the village and the neighbouring villages.

There are not many of us, only a few dozen in total. But there doesn't need to be many of us, because as long as we can heal people and help people, that is enough. That is all we need to do.

I see a new face, as young teenager dressed in a long shirt - or is it a short dress? - and with their hair falling in two golden braids down to their knees. Another new witch for us to teach. How beautiful. I love that our tradition and our magic is still going strong.

"Welcome, everyone." Calliope's voice rings bright and clear from her spot within the circle. "We are gathered here today to conduct our ceremony of communion, where we will all commune with each other and commune with the forest so that our powers can grow in strength and our healing can grow in power."

"Praise be to the forest," we echo as she pauses.

"Today we are also welcoming a new face, the lovely lass Mairinn Clarson. Mairinn, address the gatherers."

"Hi, everyone," her voice is kind of shy. "I'm really excited to be here and to be part of the ceremony of communion. I'm from Thusnelda village and I am learning under the guidance of Taylor Hausen."

"Welcome," we say to her in a messy unison. She blushes. She's so very sweet.

We gather in a circle, amongst the shrubs and the grasses and the herbs all around us. And we hold hands. Clara places a skin of water in the middle of the circle before joining us again. We all look up to face the sky. And we start chanting.

The song is low and melodic and beautiful, out of tune and out of time but so deeply, irrevocably human that it is divine. I let the cool wind, slightly too chilly, blow through my face and my hair. And I cling tightly to the hands all around me, all of us forming an unbroken circle. And I let myself melt into everything.

I am one with the witches all around me. I am one with the kindness and the anger and the fierce protectiveness and the secret subversiveness in all of their hearts. I am one with the forest all around me, with the wild, wild lands where energy and love and guidance and teaching flows through everything in a never ending, interconnected web. I am one with the village that is my hope, the village full of people who are, just as I am, struggling to get by. The village that has my heart and is my heart in its entirety. I am one with all the other villages that dot the hills and valleys and the slope of the mountains. They are all so very different. They are all the same. And all the common people, they are my soul.

I jerk my head straight as danger flows through my connection, as danger floods all my inner senses. The forest is telling us something. Telling us that we need to run. I briefly make eye contact with all the other witches in the circle around me. And in a split second, we bolt, all in different directions, all rushing towards the refuges and the hiding places of the forest.

I let my feet carry me to wherever the forest is pulling me, too full of panic to truly see where I am going. I hear the clopping sounds of hoofbeats thundering behind me. It's the lord's men. It's the lord's men. What do I do? How do I escape them? My lungs burn and my legs burn and my whole being feels as if it is filled with bright, purposeful fire. I hope it will be enough. I hope I can get away. I hope ...

I scream as the rough rope of a net falls over me, making me tumble to the ground. I move my arms to lift it above me. But before I get the chance, I am seized by strong arms clad in hard chain mail and I am held down. I scream and thrash until I am aching and hoarse. But it's no use, as I am tied down and then lifted unceremoniously onto a horse, where I am dumped belly-down like a sack of flour.

I am tied down for the whole, long, painful ride to the castle, terror building up like a sharp spire through my heart. I don't know what will happen next. I do know what will happen next. I will be punished, maybe even killed, for disobeying the lords and practicing magic. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.

But even amid the terror, one thought blooms inside me, strong and sure like a flowing river. I hold onto that thought, and I let it grow like the branches of the oak tree. The thought is simple: whatever happens, I will hold on to my dignity. And I will hold on to my people's dignity.

This does not make the anxiety lessen. Not at all. But it gives me the strength to keep on standing, metaphorically, no matter how much pain I am feeling. No matter how much pain I will feel.

Eventually I am thrown to the floor. A hard, stone floor in a dusty courtyard. Before the rider can get off his horse, I pull myself up to my feet. This seems to be the back entrance of the castle. The place where they bring in prisoners. I feel like throwing up, but I force myself to not. I cannot let them know how afraid I am. I cannot let them know that they are affecting me.

No words are exchanged as I am yanked over to a metal pole against the wall and tied to it. And it is there that I stay until the sun goes down beyond the horizon, and through the darkness and chill of the night, and until the sun once again rises in the east and lights the world in the morning's brightness.

My stomach is aching and my throat is parched dry. But this is not very new. I have gone longer without eating before. All that is new is that I've never done so in the castle. My whole body is exhausted and aching, and my mind is rushing with thoughts of what could possibly happen to me. I am working myself into insanity.

In the bright morning, a figure strolls into the courtyard, flanked by guards on each side. He wears layers and layers of fine clothing in bright fabrics. And he wears a large, trailing fur robe with brightly coloured fur, studded with a line of gems. His boots are polished and made of the finest leather. On his head is an intricate crown. He must be the lord. I stand up straighter and look him dead in his hard, cruel eyes.

"So you're the witch." His voice is smug and haughty.

"So you're the lord," I spit back.

"Why do you cause trouble, trying to use magic? We all know that the common people are weak and pathetic in magic. We all know that only the lords can wield magic strongly."

"Magic isn't just for you and your people," I reply. "Magic is for everyone. And anyone brave enough to disobey your unreasonable laws can wield magic. They can wield it stronger and better than you or even the Queen ever could.

"You are delusional. You are delusional and you don't know your place." His voice has hints of frustration to it. Am I already getting to him? Good. I must keep going at this.

"The magic of the common people is stronger than your magic ever will be. You use your magic and your power to keep all the resources from us. You use your magic to hoard everything and keep it from us. We use our magic to create healing in our communities. You don't know anything."

"It is you who does not know anything," he snarls at me. "I will show you how vastly superior my magic is from your weak and feeble magic."

"You want a bet?" I keep the fear out of my voice. I am not afraid that he might win. He won't. But I am afraid that he will hurt me. But I cannot let him know this.

"A tournament, then. Between you and me. To see who is the better mage."

"You're on." I keep looking into his eyes. "You'll have to untie me though."

And so he does, with a silver glinting knife from his gilded belt.

"Follow me." I follow him into the castle proper, surrounded by guards on each side.

The inside of the castle stretches vast on either side of me. There are so very many rooms. So many objects and idols and statues and furniture and tapestries and rugs and chandeliers and things I cannot even name, stretching out through all sides of me. The colours are so bright, are colours that I have never seen before in my life.

There are wide, clear windows surrounded by thick silken curtains. There are paintings in golden frames adorning the walls. And there are doors. So, so many different doors. And each door leads to another vast room. There are also flowers everywhere. But these are not wildflowers growing free. These are carefully-cultivated garden flowers growing in vases.

I am astounded by the beauty but at the same time I am deeply unnerved and put out by the hollowness of this beauty. By the twistedness of it. Everything is meant to appeal to the senses. But there is no soul in any of the rich surroundings around me. There is nothing intangible, untouchable. It merely all looks good. It is a false sort of beauty.

I am lead to a door engraved in gold, softly glowing in the light, intricately carved.

"Here is where I create all my spells," the lord declares, leading me in.

Inside the room are thousands of jars and cases and chalices containing every sort of expensive material imaginable. It's suffocating in here.

"I'm not impressed," I tell him.

"Oh, you will be. I will show you. I will create the most powerful beast in the kingdom. And then you will see."

He calls his servants to bring forth a chalice filled with the purest of wines. And he pours the deep red liquid onto a twisted set of crystal spires. The wine collects in the platinum bowl at the bottom of the spires. And he has his servants lift up the bowl. In dark, black ink he writes something in the fine parchment in front of him. I do not know what he wrote, because I cannot read or write. But I see him soak the parchment in the bowl of wine. The next thing I see is him using a gem-encrusted mortar and pellet to crush pearls that look more expensive than our entire village. He plays a strange string instrument.

And there is a swirling, glowing flow of gold dancing through the air. It forms the shape of a cougar, and starts glowing brighter than ever before. The petals of the rose come falling from the roof. And there is a strange warmth emanating throughout the entire room. I look at the lord, who is still playing his instrument.

I look back, and see a large cougar made of gold, with sharp, snarling teeth and rubies for eyes. I gasp slightly, afraid of the unnatural creature as it prowls up and down the room, growling and snapping, moving as fluidly as it would if it were real.

"Do you see this beast?" He declares grandly to me. "It will be able to kill any animal. None will be able to hold up against it!"

"I can create a creature with more power." My words are soft and solemn, strong and unshaking.

"I would like to see you try."

"Then just watch." I do not even hesitate for a second to reply to him.

I make my way out of the castle, towards the village. At the edge of the village, beside the forest, I kneel down.

"Mother earth, please build for me a life," I whisper, kneeling down on both knees, hands flat against the earth.

I rise, and find a patch of dirt that is uncovered by vegetation. I lay my hands on this earth and let it stick onto my fingers. I then stroke the blades of grass underneath me, starting at their bases and slowly working my way up, letting the earth coat them lightly. I raise my hands up to the sky and look up.

"Father sky, please build for me a life," I whisper. And I hold my hands up in contact with the air.

I go to the stream, and bring both of my hands down gently, at the stream's side, each hand soaked on one half by the water.

"Parent water, please build for me a life."

I walk in a circle. There is a gust of wind. And all at once, in the middle of the circle stands a baby wood bison, with thick brown fur and blunt teeth.

"Your creature is weak and pathetic," the lord tells me from atop his horse. "My beast could kill it easily."

"Do you want to see?" I ask him. "Let me up on your horse."

"A commoner, on a horse? That is absolutely preposterous!"

"It sounds to me like you're just scared," I taunt.

"Okay, fine."

He helps me up, and we watch as he calls his cougar to us. The snarling beast takes one look at the baby wood bison and starts running towards it, greedy for meat to feast upon. The bison runs towards the forest, and we follow.

For many minutes, the cougar gives chase to the baby bison. And truly, there are certain moments in which I worry that maybe it will kill the baby after all. But the baby bison stays strong and runs through the forest, knowing exactly where to go. And it makes me proud. It makes me so very proud.

It starts to look as if the cougar is catching up to the bison. But just as it's getting close, the bison finds the herd of other wood bison that live in this forest. The baby melts into the herd, rushing into its safety. And the adults all gather together in front of the cougar, protecting the young and weak members of the herd from its teeth and claws.

The cougar stops dead in its tracks, obviously afraid at the numerous bison with their sharp horns. But before it can run away, all the bison charge together, piercing its golden fur with their horns. The cougar sprawls out on the ground, crying in agony, as deep red wine bleeds from its insides.

"What did I tell you?" I ask the lord.

He is too astounded to answer.

"Well, you may have won this round," he finally concedes, "but that was only through cunning and trickery. The next challenge I am sure you will concede on."

"Oh yeah?" I ask, still looking at the carcass of the golden cougar. "Bring it on."

"I challenge you to find the most precious thing in the kingdom. If you can find something more precious than I do, then you will have won."

"Okay." I keep my voice calm and cool and slightly ired. I cannot let him know the fear I am feeling deep within my heart. Though, the fear is less than it used to be before.

"I will find the most precious thing. And if you can find anything more precious, you will win."

"Okay."

He brings us back to the castle, and to his magic room. There, he rubs the hilts of two sharp swords against each other and lays them on his grand mahogany table. Upon the swords, he places a dainty ivory spyglass. I have never seen a spyglass in real life before, I have only heard about them in stories. He gathers a chalice full of precious gems and gold and silver nuggets. And, chanting some words, he pours them onto the spyglass and the swords. He then empties a chalice of some dark liquid onto the pile. And once again, he plays his instrument.

A ribbon of flowing, glowing silver manifests in the air above us, and he takes me by the wrist as we follow it out the door.

He gathers a fleet of his knights to go out with him. He attractes a knife to his boot. I hang on to him as he rides his horse, too close for either of our comforts. We ride for two days and two nights, stopping at different villages to eat. It is an exhausting journey. A tense journey. A difficult journey. We exchange no more words than necessary. At least he is giving me food.

He follows a stream of silver that dances and glows above our heads, glinting in the sunlight. This strange air he had manifested by once again playing his strange stringed instrument and doing his elaborate rituals.

Finally, we come upon a meadow near a village.

"Here," he pronounces, "lies the most precious thing in the kingdom.

He calls the village folk and commands them to dig. And so they do. For many days and nights they dig, the hole getting deeper and deeper. Finally, someone hits something hard. At first we all think it is just a rock. But it turns out to be an unpolished hunk of diamond, as big as my torso. There is a great effort to mine it out.

"I would like to see you top that," he gloats.

"Alright," I reply, letting the sneakiness inside me show.

I get off the horse and start walking to the forest. The lord and his men follow.

"Please show me the way, forest," I beseech.

Inside the forest, there is a pull in my heart, secret and untraceable, showing me where to go. It pulls me this way and that, through stretches of forest that I am altogether unfamiliar with. I walk and I walk, for days on end, eating berries I find and drinking from rivers and streams. The men follow me, and they grumble about how exhausted they are, about how this journey is taking forever.

The forest leads me to the mountains. And I climb the mountains. I climb the mountains for days on end, not keeping track of how much time has passed. The knights complain that I am wasting their time. And the lord tells me that if this turns out to be for nothing, he will have my head.

I know that he will have my head anyways.

I keep on following the tug in my heart as it leads me through the forest. I finally get near the summit of a mountain, and I point up to the rain clouds forming above us.

"This," I tell everyone, "is the most precious thing in the kingdom. The rain on the mountains which fill all of our rivers and streams with water."

"What nonsense!" The lord exclaims. "How can simple water be precious?"

"You have never known thirst," I explain to him, "you would never understand."

We exchange no words during the long trek back.

When the lord is at his beloved castle, he sinks down upon his large, plush bed with sheer curtains hanging from a frame surrounding it. I sit down beside him, and he is too exhausted to tell me anything.

"I won both rounds," I state.

"No you did not," he retorts.

"Yes I did," I reply back.

"I found a diamond. What you found was some simple water. Mine was far more precious."

I laugh at this, an ugly, unseemly laugh, and he gets very agitated.

"I will have your head!" He shouts at me.

"If you want my head then take it," I quip. "I do not care much for something as fleeting as a head."

At this, he gets even more agitated, which makes me just laugh louder.

"Anyways," I tell him, "Even if you did win this round, which you didn't, we would still be tied one to one."

"Fine. You're right. We should do one more challenge to set the record straight once and for all."

"What challenge do you want to do? You've chosen all the other challenges thus far." I lie down onto the plush softness of the bed. I lie down beside the lord. And he does not even do anything to stop me. This bed is far softer than anything I have ever experienced in my life. I like it. Though I know it was made with the blood of my people.

"I will let you know," he replies, "just give me a few days of rest."

I am lead back to the courtyard I was brought into that first fateful day. And I am once again tied to the post by the wall. This time they do bring me food, but only once a day. It is okay, I have survived on less. I keep track of the movement of the sun in the sky. I keep track of how many times it sets and rises. And I pray. I pray with everything that I have, to all the goodly forces of the world, that something good can come of my life, no matter how it ends.

Finally, after four days are through, the lord makes his way down to see me, freeing me from my bonds but keeping a circle of guards around me so that I can't escape.

"What is your challenge?" I ask him, putting as much confidence, both false and real, as I can behind my voice.

"I challenge you to go to all the corners of the vast kingdom in within three days. I can travel far and wide using my magic. I would wager that you cannot travel beyond your pathetic little village."

"If that is what you wager, then I am sorry but you will lose."

"We shall see who loses." He smirks at me, and there is mirth in his eyes. There is hatred in mine.

He takes me in a twisting path through the vast courtyard. We arrive at last to the stables, grand and clean and full of impressive horses. He gets his stable hand to bring him two horses. These he leads back to his magic room, taking them in through the castle. I get to see even more of the vast, stretching rooms filled with unimaginable wealth that make up the residence of the lord. I am very uncomfortable yet awed in a strange way at the same time.

Finally, we get to the magic room. There, the lord takes the horses and drapes them with silken sheets, layers and layers of blooming colours and twisting patterns. Then he takes a silver knife and, much to my ire, makes two slots in the silk, on the backs of each horse but not cutting through the skin. He takes a peacock feather and lightly brushes each horse down. I can only imagine what the horses are feeling. They surprisingly have been calm throughout this whole ordeal.

The horses start glowing, uncomfortably bright, and small shining flecks start flying everywhere around the room. There is a swirling wind that carries brightly-coloured smoke. And I watch as it swirls around the horses.

Everything calms down, and I see that now the horses have silver wings on their backs. I can see where this is going.

"Impressive, huh?" The lord asks me, smiling at his own actions.

"I've seen better," I retort nonchalantly.

"Get in the carriage. We're going on a trip."

"If you insist." I smile at him, to show that I'm not scared. Once again the guards flank us, but as we enter the plush insides of the lord's polished carriage, they do not come in with us.

I am still entirely trapped, though, as the doors lock from the outside and the thick glass windows bar me from climbing out.

The horses are attached to the carriage with silken ropes and the lord chants to make them start flying, no-one at the reins. We quickly ascend to the sky, and I look out the window to see the world tiny underneath me. Everything looks so small and insignificant. As if all that matters is myself and the lord.

I remind myself that this isn't true. I try to ground myself. Thankfully, I succeed.

"So what do you do?" He asks me.

"I farm. I take care of the village children. I practice magic." I try to keep my answers vague.

"And how did you learn this magic?"

"From my mentor." If he thinks he can interrogate information from me, he's got another thing coming.

"And who is your mentor?"

"That's for me to know and you to wonder."

"How do you manage to be so insolent?"

"I know I'm dead no matter what, so I might as well have fun."

"You're outstandingly strong. I've never met a woman like you before."

"Oh, really?" I hide how not-strong I am feeling on the inside.

"Yes. Strong. Brave. Good at magic. You're a real rarity."

"And you're a real halfwit."

He bursts out laughing at this, oblivious to the hatred behind my words. I simply look at him coolly and smile.

Eventually the ride through the kingdom is over and I am escorted back to the castle courtyard.

"Now it's my turn." I smile. "You could go to the whole kingdom. And that's impressive. But I can be everywhere in the kingdom at once."

"As if. That doesn't remotely make sense."

The lord and his guards follow me to the grass field to the east of the village. There I sit down on my knees. I close my eyes. And I breathe deeply. I can feel the cold springtime air blowing over my body, giving me sharp energy. I can feel the rays of the sun on me. I can feel my place, here, in the meadow, by the village. And I almost feel at home.

I breathe. And I breathe. And I breathe again. And I feel all the emotions inside of me. All the rage and the hate and the pain. I feel all the fear and the hope. I feel all the love and the community and the joy. And I feel the way these emotions connect me to everyone in the whole entire kingdom, barring the nobles of course. I feel the way that these emotions echo and change and reverberate within all the common people in the kingdom, connecting us all.

I let my soul come out of my body and I let my body come out of the world and I let everything connect itself back to the forest. I feel all the very many, infinite threads connecting all of us common folk together, the threads connecting us to the wild lands and the mountains and the hills and the rivers and the dales. I let everything come together and I let everything take me apart, take me apart into every direction. I am where I am meant to be, where I was all along.

I feel at one with everything. I feel at one with everyone. I am everyone, I am every single living thing in this kingdom, all at the same time. They all flow into me and I flow into all of them. I live their lives, I feel their heartache, I experience their joy.

I feel at once not in the world and completely in the world at the same time.

Everyone's lives flow through me and are a part of me as if they are my own. As if I am theirs. And they are my own. They have been my own since before I first drew breath, since before I first moved within my father's womb. And they will be my own long after I am gone from this world. And I have always been theirs. I have been theirs since before this kingdom was made and I will be theirs long after it falls to ruin.

I have always been everyone. I have always been everyone and everyone has always been me. It is just that in this moment, I am focusing on it. In this moment I am focusing on how I am everyone and everyone is me. And I am letting it overcome me and overwhelm me and take up all the parts of my consciousness. And so I am projecting to every village in the whole kingdom. I am projecting to everyone.

I am also projecting to every grain of dirt, through every stretch of sky, to every ray of sun. I am all the nature and all the nature is me and all the nature is everyone else and everyone else is all the nature. The trees, the shrubs, the bushes, the herbs, the grasses. They are all a part of me and I am all a part of them. The rivers and streams and hidden healing springs within the forest. I exist in all of that water, and all of that water exists in me. Everyone exists in all of that water and all of that water exists is everyone simultaneously at the same time. I am the wolf that stalks through the trees and I am the moose that eats the green leaves and I am the bird that sings its bright song and I am the bedrock that was here all along.

And it's painful. It is so, so incredibly, overwhelmingly painful. It is unbearably painful. I feel everyone's pain as if it were my own. I feel everyone's pain and it is my own. It has been my own for much longer than I have lived. It will be my own for long after I die. But now I am focusing on it. I am focusing on it and on all the deep injustices that paint everyone's lives. All the very many sources of pain that pierce through everyone's experiences. I am feeling it all and I am becoming one with it.

I do not only feel the people's pain, but I feel nature's pain as well. I feel the ever present pain of the air. I feel the burning pain of the sun. I feel the grieving pain of all the plants and the animals. I feel the flowing pain of all the waters. I am them and they are me and their pain is my pain.

Nature grieves because the people grieve. Nature aches because the people ache. Nature mourns that we are seperated from her and that she cannot protect us, that she cannot keep us safe from each and every kind of harm, the way that she could in times long since gone by and now just barely remembered. Nature's pain is a mother's pain. And oh, how very deeply I feel her.

But I also feel joy. Too much joy for me to contain. All the joy the people have from having each other. All the joy people feel from seeing their children smile. All the joy that people feel from meeting kind strangers. The joy of meals, however meagre, shared by the hearth. The joy of coming together in bright song. The joy of feeling the sun on our skin and the air in our lungs. The joy of sharing stories in the darkness of the night. Of small resistances to the ruling forms of power. Of having hope that these power systems will come to and end.

I feel the joy that nature feels each and every time it can be with someone, be by someone, each and every time that it can help someone in ways big and small, in ways that are physical, or mental, or emotional, or spiritual.

I feel the joy that people feel that their people are still existing,

I feel the joy that nature feels that it is still existing.

I feel the joy that people feel that nature is still existing.

I feel the joy that nature feels that the people are still existing.

I feel the hope that all life feels that one day things will be better, one day things will be kinder, one day things will be fair and universally equal. And all this joy and all this anguish and all these infinite different emotions felt in an infinity of different ways tears me apart and brings me together in ways that I will never be able to describe, ways that I will never be able to explain. Not even to myself.

All I can do is feel it. All I can do is feel everything that the Creator has created and let it be so intimately tied with me that it is me and I am it.

I do not know whether I am alive or dead. All I know is that we exist, we exist, we exist. All together, all within one another, all a part of one another, we exist. And we are beautiful. And the nature that created us is beautiful. And it all is so very beautiful and broken and strong and fragile and betrayed and perfect.

And I stay in this state of agony and bliss until I feel something on my body. Warm, soft, deeply unsettling hands on my shoulders. I startle and look up, immersed back into the regular, terrible flow of my life.

The lord is looking at me, amazement carved onto his entire face.

"How ... how did you do that?" he asks. His voice is dazed and confused.

"A true magician never tells her secrets," I reply.

"I've never seen anything like it. It must be a rare practice indeed."

This form of magic that I just did is the easiest form of magic to do. It requires no teaching, no bravery, just a lookout to make sure no nobles or guards are coming. And this is a form of magic that literally all of the common people practice. I don't tell him this of course. Of course I don't tell him this. I have to keep my people safe after all.

"Maybe it is," I tell him. Surprisingly, he smiles.

"Well, you've definitely won this round. But how about one more round to see who wins once and for all?" His voice has a softness to it that wasn't there before.

"Sure, why not? Though actually, I've won every round."

"Anyways, what do you think the final test will be?"

"I'm ready for anything, your lordship." I pour sarcasm into his title so that he knows I'm not afraid of him.

"I need time to think. Why don't you come to the castle with me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

I follow him to his rooms, trailed by guards. I feel sorry for the guards. I feel incredibly sorry for them. And, looking back at it, I think I always did. They have to put up with the lord all the time. But I can say nothing as I follow the lord. In his large chambers, the door locks behind me.

"So I would like to get to know you a little better," he tells me, sitting on a plush red and black chaise.

"There's nothing about me that would interest you."

"Well, how old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Okay."

"What about your family? What are they like?"

"They're kind." The less that he knows, the better.

"And what of your mother? Was she a witch like you?"

"No. Will you let me go home?"

"No."

We keep on talking until dinner arrives. He gets something I can't even name, with juicy meat and bright vegetables and thick sauces. Along with that he gets a chalice of fine wine. I get a simple bowl of porridge and a glass of simple water. It's something, at least. At the very least I won't be hungry. We eat together in tenseness.

"Where will I sleep?" I ask him once dinner is over.

"I'll take my small bed. You can have the large one."

"Thank you."

I let myself feel the soft bed underneath me and the satin blankets above me. I let myself feel whatever pleasures I can, pleasures that have been denied me for all of my life, pleasures I'll never feel again once I am dead.

I wonder why he's being so kind to me. He must be impressed with my magic.

The morning doesn't bring its usual brightness but rather strange, colourful tinted light. Light that is far too bright to be natural and far too unnatural to be pleasant. The lord greets me from his room, standing in front of the locked door.

"Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning my lord."

"I think I know what our final challenge will be."

"Oh? What will it be?"

"We will see who can create the most beautiful thing."

"Oh that? That's easy."

"We will see."

We eat breakfast in the large, long dining hall and it is so, so deeply uncomfortable to be waited on by servants.

"How did you enjoy your night?" His voice is smooth and unnerving.

"It was okay. How about you?"

"I missed my bed, but I plan on sleeping there again tonight."

"Okay." Tonight. After my execution. Fuck.

"So tell me, how you learned your magic."

"No."

He keeps trying to ask me questions for the rest of breakfast.

Finally I follow him to his magic room. In it, I see things that were not there before. Gems that sparkle and shine brighter than all the others. A large rod of platinum. Lustrous pearls. An assortment of what vaguely resembles tools.

Ho says no words and gets to work, pouring wine by the chalice into a bowl large enough to bathe a baby in. He then sets it on fire, and into the fire he places the platinum. He also puts the gems and the pearls into the fire. Next, he creates a ring around the bowl made of ivory and jade arranged into intricate shapes. He plunges a knife into a ring necked dove, and I watch in horror as it struggles and screams, and he pours the blood of the bird onto the fire. He gets his peacock feathers and burns them, along with the neck feathers of the dove. And finally, he writes something long and fine with his ink and places it over the bowl.

A thousand pink leaf-like flakes of different sizes and shapes manifests into the air. They swirl all around the room, coalescing by the bowl full of treasures. There they all join together and started to glow. It's beautiful to see but there's something deeply wrong about it. There is something deeply twisted.

Eventually the glowing subsides and in the bowl there is a beautiful platinum crown, as tall as my hand is long, shining in the firelight, finely-shaped in all sorts of flowing metallic swirls and curls, encrusted with all sorts of gems and pearls.

"Isn't it beautiful?" The lord asks me.

"I can do better," I tell him. And my words come out clear and confident. And they are not a lie.

I walk to the peach tree in the courtyard, growing by the shadows of the outer wall. I reach on my tip toes and pick a few peaches, and put them in my uplifted skirt. I walk through the brisk spring morning to the village. And I find a group of young children playing on the streets. Alex, Clementine, Seraphina, and Sparrow. The youngest one is only year old and the oldest one is five.

"Hi guys." I sing brightly as I stoop down to smile at them.

"Hi Aunt Marianna," they chime back in unison. I'm not really their aunt but I am their aunt anyways. They stare at the guards behind me, awed and more than a little terrified.

"Don't mind the guards," I tell the children, "they won't hurt you. I promise."

"Why they here?" Little Seraphina asks in her baby voice.

"There's just following me. Anyways, I got you guys some peaches from the lord's own garden."

"From the lord's own garden?" Alex exclaims, pronouncing their r's as l's.

"Yes, children, they're for you." I hand them out to each child.

"Wow! Thank you!" Sparrow exclaims. They all hold the fruits in their hands and they smile.

"You see, my lord?" I turn to him. "The most beautiful thing in the world."

He stands there, not saying anything.

I turn back to the kids.

"Now you enjoy those peaches, I tell them. "And have fun. I'm really sorry, but Aunt Marianna needs to go back to the castle."

"Why?"

"Because the lord wants me there," I respond.

On the walk back to the castle the lord asks me

"How was that beautiful?"

"The smile of a child, my lord," I try to explain to him, "it's the most beautiful thing there is."

"I don't see what you see."

"And I suppose you can't, with all your statues and thrones."

"You are a rather strange woman. Anyways, you didn't even use magic."

"Didn't I?" I smile mysteriously.

"I have a question to ask you," the lord tells me, quite urgently, once we get back to the castle.

"Okay," I reply, trying to keep the building dread out of my voice.

"Go to my rooms," he bids me, and I obey.

I sit on the bed, trying to breathe slowly and deeply, in the way that Anna taught me a few years ago.

After what feels like an eternity, the lord walks in with the crown that he made. He gets on one knee in front of me, holding out the crown,

"My dear maiden Marianna," he says to me, "I am awed and amazed by your skills and talents in the magical art. I do admit, I was quite doubtful at first. But you have proven yourself to be very worthy. Most rare amongst the commoners. So rare, in fact, that I have realized that you must not be a commoner at all, but rather a noble who got lost at birth and was taken in by the peasants. In light of this, and knowing the fact that all the nobles must stay together as one group, I am asking you to marry me, and to be my lady. I am really rather enamoured by you and would be honoured to be your husband."

I don't know how to respond. At all. In my shock I start laughing. I laugh because of how stupid it is, because he thinks I am a lost noble because of my magic abilities. Really, my magic abilities are rather average. The olds mages who teach the newer recruits know far more than I, and can do far more.

"Why are you laughing?" the lord asks, rather taken aback.

"I'm sorry," I manage to stutter our through giggles, "it's just, your stupidity."

"My what?"

I keep laughing for a while, before I am able to answer.

"You think that I'm a noble tragically separated from her high born roots. But I'm just a normal girl, with no noble blood."

"Preposterous. You must be from a noble family. You just don't know it. To bring you back to the high background where you belong, I will make you my wife, my lady."

"I'm not some foundling. My father and mother had me and they raised me and the village is all I have ever known."

"Absurd. No normal girl would be able to be so very adept in magic."

At this I burst into another fit of laughter. This is so absurd. So very absurd. Me sitting on a soft bed with silken sheets while the lord of my county kneels in front of me, insisting that I am of noble blood. And simply because I'm average at magic. Simply because I am average at magic!

"My lord. I'm sorry. I am just a normal girl who practices witchcraft. Not anything else."

"So how do you explain then that you are so skilled in magic?"

"All people have magic inside of them. All people can express the magic inside of them, if they are just given the chance. The nobles are not better than anyone else in the use of magic. The nobles are average. Dare I say, they are less than average, because they are not at all connected to their magical source. But the only reason the common people cannot express their magic is because you and your people forbid it. You and your people prevent us from using the gifts we all have. But still, some of us are brave enough to go against your rule and learn the craft anyways."

"Wow. Being forced to live as a peasant has really made you delusional." What? He didn't even listen to me. He didn't even take my argument seriously, he just brushed it off. He is insufferable.

"I'm not delusional, you are." There is no mirth or softness left in my hard voice.

"Whatever your delusions may be, will you marry me? I will offer you a fine life full of servants and luxury."

I think about this for a while.

Marrying him would be my only shot at life. It would be the only way I could get out of this situation free. He wouldn't hurt me if we were married. He wouldn't hurt me, or my parents, or my siblings, or my roommates. He wouldn't hurt my village. And I could be alive. This is perhaps my only shot at being alive. If I said yes, if I said yes despite all that my heart is protesting, then I could be alive and free.

But, free? Would I really be free in a large castle, bound to this noble man, with an army of servants at my beck and call? Would I really be free despite having to warm his bed in the nights, having to be by his side in the days, having to live the sort of life that all the nobles live? Would it be authentic? Would it be real? Would it be me?

It feels like a betrayal, agreeing to marry him. A betrayal to my family, a betrayal to my fellow witches, a betrayal to my people. But most of all, it feels like it is a betrayal to me. I'm brave. I don't give in to fear. I don't sign my life away, sign my freedom away, sign myself away simply for the chance at continuing to survive. I went against the prohibition in order to study witchcraft. I can go against this lord's power, against his wishes.

I harden my gut and swallow down the fear that I am feeling.

"I won't marry you." My voice rings clear.

The lord looks taken aback, looks astonished, looks genuinely hurt.

"What?" There is confusion and betrayal in his voice.

"I won't marry you," I repeat, simply.

"Well then," his voice is like a hurt child's, but his features quickly harden, "I guess I will have to have you executed for practicing magic without authorization."

"Do it then." I fight with everything I have to make sure that my voice doesn't tremble.

I force myself to walk on my numb legs as I am led out of the lord's room and into a section of the castle that I have never been to before. It is so hard to breathe. I feel as though I am moving underwater. Everything feels unreal, as if it's a dream. Everything feels more real than it has ever felt before. I thought I was prepared for death but in reality I was not prepared. I was not prepared at all. I am not prepared at all.

In the end I am taken to a room that is far too bright for the gruesome brutality that is meant to go on inside it. There is an execution block in the middle of the small courtyard. And I am led to this block. One of the guards takes his place as the executioner. It must be a horrid job, and I wish I could free him of it. I wish I could free all the guards.

I take a deep breath, the last breath I will take in my life. And I feel the sun against my skin. For the last time in my life.

3.

2.

1.

The heavy, ripping, searing pain screams through my neck like bright hot fire. The world goes black. But I don't die. I don't die. Or do I die? I don't know.

I feel strange, as if I am filled with a strange, brimming energy. It feels bright and buzzing and so very natural, as if it was meant to be all along. There is no more pain.

The blackness goes away and I find myself staring down at my own beheaded body, gruesome and horrible. I lie limp and ashen, bright red blood pooling all around me. The lord is kneeling beside my remains, and I see him lift my limp hand to his lips.

I close my eyes. And when I open them, I am back in the forest, deep within its depths where no guards can find me. I feel a power within me. A power that I didn't possess before. It flows through me strong and calming and oh-so-very protective, oh-so-very fierce. I feel like a mother moose with calves and antlers and nothing but the feral need for the preservation of the youth. I feel like the river that flows through all the lands, protecting and nourishing them.

I have power now. I have power. And I can use this power to protect the forest. To protect my people.

And so I do. Forever after, I create a protective barrier around the forest, so that no noble may ever gain entry, so that the common people, witch and non-witch alike, can be safe while they are within its protective embrace. Safe to practice magic and to love and gather food find refuge and haven.

I am one with the forest. I am one with the people. And as long as either the forest or the people survive, I will never die.

Our names are _____ and we are from _______. We are writing to you today to ask that you stop discriminating against First Nations children and their families and communities. We ask that you adequately fund services on reserves so that the people there can have their needs met. We ask that you negotiate with First Nations communities themselves, and all First Nations communities, to create a Final Settlement Agreement on Longterm Reform of First Nations Child and Family Services that is better than the pathetic Draft Final Settlement Agreement you have now. We need an actually good agreement on child and family services that will actually guarantee that all current and future First Nations children will be able to stay with the families that love them and be safe. You also need to make sure all children and youth needing Jordan's Principle services get them in an adequately fast time. The Final Settlement Agreement on Jordan's Principle needs to also be adequate to permanently ensure all children and youth get the services they need in a timely manner. We ask that you phase out the ineffective institution of Indigenous Services Canada and replace it with an Indigenous-run treasury board. Finally, we ask that you adequately fund and support education on reserves so that the educational needs of the children are met and they receive educational outcomes equal to that of non-Indigenous children.

There are so many problems facing First Nations children, especially on reserves. Problems that are caused by the willful and cruel behaviour of the Canadian government. Canada's discrimination against First Nations children is deep, severe, and widespread. And it is causing immense damage to the lives of children.

The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal has made many orders to Canada to stop the discriminatory conduct, and yet Canada has not rooted out the discrimination and inequity in its dealings with First Nations children, families, and communities.

First, let's talk about the situation with Child and Family Services. For decades, Canada has underfunded prevention services that keep families together. This leads to children being taken from their homes, their families, their loved ones. It leads to children being placed in foster care where they cannot be with their families who love them and who they love. First Nations children who are taken from their families are the vast majority of times not being abused. Their families are simply poor, or disabled, or struggling with addiction, or mentally ill, and they are trying their best to take care of their children despite the factors that they have no control over. If equitable and effective prevention services are funded, developed, and put into action, then instead of taking children away, child and family services could help to give families what they need in order for their children to have the childhoods they deserve.

During child welfare investigations, First Nations children are 17 times more likely to be taken from their homes, not due to abuse, but due to their families being poor or struggling. There are more First Nations children taken from their homes now than there was at the height of the residential school era. This is all horrific. Children need their families, and taking children away from their families causes immense and lifelong trauma, causing mental illnesses and even physical illnesses.

Canada has been negotiating with some First Nations representative groups to create a Draft Final Settlement Agreement on long term reform of child and family services. But there are many problems with this agreement.

First of all, the negotiations that lead to the Draft Final Settlement Agreement were kept secret from the public, including the public of the First Nations communities themselves. If the process of negotiation is kept hidden from the First Nations communities, then the communities cannot meaningfully affect the creation of the Draft Final Settlement Agreement and its contents. This is not democratic. Victims of previous discrimination, notably, have been left out of the negotiation process that lead to the current draft.

Secondly, not all First Nations communities could send their representatives to the negotiation table. This means that some First Nations communities were completely left out when it came to the process of creating the draft, since they were not even able to send representatives.

Experts in child and family services and child wellbeing were also not consulted in the making of the Draft Final Settlement Agreement on child and family service reform.

Along with being exclusionary and undemocratic, the Draft Final Settlement Agreement also does not solve the problem of prevention services facing a lack of funding. The reason families can't get the help they need and are separated is because prevention services to give families help is currently underfunded. And they will continue to be so under the Draft Final Settlement Agreement.

First of all, the $47 billion in projected funding over ten years is simply a projection, a prediction, it is not a guarantee of any sort. The funding for prevention services will depend each year on a vote by the House of Commons, and is therefore subject to the whims of government and politics. Secondly, after the next nine years, there isn't even a prediction of funding. We don't have any idea what funding for prevention services will be like after the ten years run out. The funding structure is not effective, according to the Institute of Fiscal Studies and Democracy. What's more, the projected $47 billion over ten years is unlikely to be enough to adequately fund prevention services. Especially since we don't know how much of it is actually going to go to prevention services and not governance or things like that.

The way that reforms will be made to family service provision on reserves is also flawed. The Reform Implementation Committee will be responsible for figuring out what things to change with the way child and family services is carried out on each reserve. However, the Reform Implementation Comitte's work will be secret. What changes they will make will be kept secret until the changes are already put in place. This is an undemocratic way of doing things and does not let the public, especially the public of the First Nations communities, be involved in the reform process. It also doesn't not let civil society be involved. Because of these two things, the reforms that get put into place by the Reform Implementation Committee will likely not be effective in creating child and family services that keep children with their families.

Not to mention, the recommendations the Reform Implementation Committee call for will need to be agreed to by the Canadian government. The Reform Implementation Committee for child and family services will make a report that is kept secret from the public, which will have the changes it wants to put in place. The federal government will have the power to either green light or veto these changes, depending on whether the government likes them or not. Given the government's track record of continually trying to take kids from their homes for decades, the government will not allow changes to happen to service provision that actually keep loving families together.

The Draft Final Settlement Agreement will also have a secretariat who will gather, analyze, and share information about child and family services and what the results are for children and families. Yet this secretariat will not be independent from the government and apolitical. This means that the work that it does will be biased and untrustworthy.

The Final Settlement Agreement needs to put provisions in place that ensure that if any discrimination or inequity is happening at any level of family service provision, that discrimination/inequity gets identified, addressed, and solved. They need to have a mechanism that is effective at solving any problems that arise and is enshrined in law for future generations, while being able improve over time.

The Alternative Dispute Resolution Process in the Draft Final Settlement Agreement does not do that. First of all, this dispute resolution process only lasts for ten years, and there is no mechanism to deal with problems after ten years is up. Secondly, the Alternative Dispute Resolution mechanism has no power to force Canada to act in specific ways or change its specific actions, therefore letting Canada not do what it needs to do in order to be equal and equitable. The mechanism cannot ask for damage compensation, and it also cannot do anything about systemic issues. As well, the employees in this process have no requirement to be impartial and apolitical, which compromises their ability to act in just ways. The mechanism cannot even ask for more funding of prevention services or funding of new service components.

The Alternative Dispute Resolution Process does not protect the human rights of First Nations children and families. First of all, people making claims under this mechanism lose the rights they have under the Human Rights Act. Communities cannot make any human rights claims regarding the issues "addressed" in the Draft Final Settlement Agreement. And there are no measures stopping the government from legally retaliating against people making claims in this process.

There are other problems as well. As well, the dispute resolution process takes a long time, which means that urgent cases involving children who need help immediately are stalled and the children suffer. And if a person or family wants to bring up complex cases with the Alternative Dispute Resolution Process, they do not get their legal representation funded. This means that many people cannot bring up the problems that they are having, problems that need to be addressed, due to not having the money for legal representation.

The Draft Final Settlement Agreement limits the definition of First Nations Child to the definition under the Indian Act. This leaves many First Nations children out, because there are many children who are recognized by their First Nations communities but not recognized under the Indian Act, and these children also need services.

There is also not adequate funding to help First Nations people self-advocate for their needs. Band representation services help First Nations people be directly involved in individual child welfare cases. This is very important, because each child welfare case determines the fate of a child and their family. If the communities, families and children involved in the case have band representation services, then they can have their voices, desires, and needs be heard better during the case, and this will help them stop injustice from happening. However, in most communities, band representation services are underfunded. Off-reserve, Indigenous people have no access to band representation services at all.

Other problems with this draft include that once signed, it cannot be changed if some aspects of it are harmful, it doesn't hold up the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, and it gives Canada too much power over child and family service providers as opposed to giving power to the First Nations themselves.

Chiefs across Canada have called on the federal government and the other negotiating parties to create a better agreement, an agreement that is actually effective at stopping the trauma, injustice, and discrimination First Nations children, both on and off reserve, are being faced with due to the current child and family service model. They have created the National Children's Chiefs Committee to push for true and effective change, so that children can stay with the families who love them. They monitor the reform of Jordan's Principle services (more on that later) and child and family services, and report back to First Nations representatives across the country.

So what should an actually good Final Settlement Agreement, which is better than this draft, be like? First Nations communities, First Nations experts, and other experts working closely with First Nations communities have many ideas for how to bring real reform. The child and family services of each community should be unique to the community and its needs, and should be developed by each community. Services should be lead by the communities they serve. And any changes or reforms should be adequately reviewed by each community before being put into place to ensure that the community wants the changes being made and that the ideas and desires of the community are included. Regional and subregional organizations representing First Nations communities should also have their voices heard and included, and also deserve to have funding to be able to be involved in the negotiation and in other negotiations and issues.

Parties involved in the negotiation of this agreement should be allowed to go to the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal to bring up any necessary cases while negotiations are in place. This is because the Canadian government continues to deal cruelly with First Nations children and families while the negotiations for reform are in place. And therefore, parties need to be able to go to the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal to seek help for children and families who are being treated unfairly while the negotiation process is in place.

There should be a National Advisory Committe made up of First Nations people that has representatives from every First Nation community. There should also be a transparent and independant Expert Advisory Committee that includes independant and credible experts vetted by the communities. The National Advisory Committee, the Expert Advisory Committee, and most importantly First Nations communities themselves should be the ones leading the reforms.

Child and family services should be holistic and multigenerational, taking into account the physical, cognitive, emotional, psychological, spiritual, and social needs of the children. Services should help children have a sense of belonging and attachment to their families and communities. They need to be given good educations, healthcare, housing, and other basic necessities. And services must help children be part of and immersed in their languages, cultures, and heritages. We need to actually help the families to have their needs met, we need to actually help the children to have their needs met, instead of taking children from their families.

Prevention services should include income support, housing, education and employment opportunities, tutoring, after-school clubs, recreational and cultural programs, childcare, therapy, counselling, medicine, speech therapy, trauma support programs, addiction and mental health programs, parenting education, intimate partner abuse prevention, community connection, in-home crisis intervention, trauma education, and more. These services will help children and families thrive instead of further traumatizing them when they're in an already vulnerable situation.

Prevention services should include post-majority supports. Post-majority supports are supports given to young adults who are entering into the adult world for the first time and are therefore vulnerable and need extra support. If there are adequate post-majority supports, this will help young adults establish happy and sucessfull lives, which will help them create better lives for their children and break cycles of generational poverty and trauma. Post-majority supports need to be evidence-based, culturally appropriate, and needs-based.

In order to provide the services families need, child and family service providers need to have all the funding, resources, and supports they need in order to provide services that help families and keep them together. The government needs to provide this funding, support, and resources so that the human rights of First Nations children and families are met. The funding structure needs to be evidence-informed as well as being community-lead. Funding structures must take into account the specific needs of each community, including needs related to remoteness or specific disadvantages. Funding structures must also respond to the actual and changing needs of children, families, and communities. Service providers also need to be given flexibility as to how to use their funding to meet people's needs. There should be funding set aside for if there is more than expected use of child and family services.

The funding given to First Nations communities and service providers in order to keep kids in their families cannot decrease over time. There must be adequate legal and policy protections in place that make it so that funding for prevention services does not decrease but rather rises to meet changing community needs. There needs to be adjustments to funding that adequately meet the changing needs due to regional and national inflation levels, due to changing populations, and due to changing needs.

There must also be funding for things such as emergency funds, extentuating circumstance funds, maintenance costs, technology, and information gathering. There needs to be adequate money to pay for people to represent their communities to the government. Funding must exist to help with the planning processes that go into creating new services or expanding and improving services. And there needs to be money for insurance, technical experts who provide advice and guidance, buildings, and all other costs related to delivering prevention services that help children and families meet their actual needs.

Funding must be guaranteed. It should not be dependent on political factors, and adequate and comprehensive funding must be guaranteed no matter what party is in power. As well, no matter how exactly a community is delivering child and family services, whether they are doing it themselves or relying on an agency or something else, they should be guaranteed to have the adequate and comprehensive funding they need. We don't know yet exactly how much funding will be needed for reformed child and family services, but the government must pay the money necessary no matter how much it is. The funding should be put into the Special Purpose Allotment so that it can't be used for anything else. The government should not be allowed to use any laws to try to justify underfunding prevention services or other necessary services to First Nations.

There also needs to be adequate funding for First Nations self-advocacy. There needs to be adequate funding of band representation services, which help people engage with child welfare cases. There needs to be adequate funding of this service both on and off reserves. Also, Canada should adequately fund national and regional groups lead by First Nations youth that help the youth advocate on issues that affect them.

The future of child and family services needs to be evidence-informed. This means that there needs to be regular information gathering on how services are affecting children and families, what the needs of children and families are, and how services could be improved. There should be a funding review every five years by independent, non-political public finance experts experienced with First Nations. Indigenous Services Canada or any other governing body, as well as service providers, must provide data for this review within ten days of being asked. This review must be reviewed by First Nations and experts, and approved by all First Nations communities, and the government must implement the recommended changes.

For the sake of information gathering, there should be national and regional secretariats that collect, analyze, and distribute information. They should be independant, apolitical First Nations non profits who are appointed by the National Advisory Committee. They should be funded by the federal government and receive all the funding that they ask for.

There must also be a Program Assessment, which assess the progress that is being made towards reaching equitable and non-discriminatory child and family service provision. This assessment must be public, independant, transparent, inclusive, and accountable. The group that does the Program Assessment must be chosen by First Nations communities themselves, with all communities being able to be represented and to participate in the selection process.

There needs to be an actually effective dispute resolution process for child and family services that finds and stops any future discrimination that could be occurring. The complaints and dispute resolution process must let the court enforce and mandate changes, it must be public and transparent, respect human rights, be efficient and not have delays, offer relief to children and families, be non discriminatory and have adequate ways of stopping and preventing discrimination, have state-funded legal representation and support for First Nations parties, and it must be accountable. A dispute resolution process needs to be able to make orders, including orders for compensation, and it needs to have independent and accountable decision makers who haven't served in a political capacity, have disclosed conflicts of interest, and are experienced in First Nations matters. The dispute resolution process must stop the government from backsliding or not progressing when it comes to First Nations children and families.

The dispute resolution process should also be based on human rights. This includes allowing people to make claims in court under the Canadian Human Rights Act while using the dispute resolution mechanism. It also means that national and international human rights legislation, and the best interests of the child, must be givern precedence above any other law. There should be no retaliation allowed against claimants. The mechanism needs to be able to make systemic changes both small and large, and it also needs to be able to conduct inquiries to find out what changes to make.

An actually good Final Settlement Agreement must be in line with the Truth and Reconciliation Committee's calls to action, in line with the Canadian Human Rights Act, the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People, and the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. The best interests of the child should always come first, and the wishes of the child should be given importance. Children, families, and communities need to have power in decisions that affect them.

It will take time for prevention services to be developed. It will also take time for First Nations who want to move towards delivering child and family services themselves to do that. The government needs to support the development of these services and the transition to First Nation-delivered services. The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal needs to be around to make sure that the reformed service delivery to communities is equitable, non-discriminatory, and just. In the current Draft Final Settlement Agreement many communities are being forced to make this transition without preparedness or support.

Small First Nations populations have unique needs. It's not yet well understood how to deliver child and family services to small populations in a way that is equitable and keeps families together. There needs to be independant and expert community-lead research into what is needed in small communities, and the Canadian Human Rights Trubunal needs to be around to make sure that small communities are getting the services they need in a non-discriminatory and just way.

There are also some reserve communities who have their child and family services delivered by the provinces. These communities also deserve all the same funding, reforms, rights, and protections that other communities get. Additionally, the federal government must make public the agreements and terms they have with provincial governments in cases where provincial governments are providing child and family services. This allows for communities to know what supports they have access to and how to improve service provision. The provincial and federal governments need to coordinate well with each other and with First Nations communities when family services on a reserve are being provided by the province. Different communities will have different needs, and it will take time, money, research, and effort to create truly effective prevention services for communities served by the provinces.

Within three years of an actually good Final Settlement Agreement for child and family service reform being approved, there needs to be an evidence-based plan to fund and build all the buildings and other physical infrastructure that need to be built for adequate prevention service provision. Canada should not delay funding and supporting the building of this infastructure. Urgently-needed things should be built with the necessary urgency.

As well, an actually good Final Settlement Agreement would give children, youth, families, and communities off reserves the same services, funding, protections, and inclusion that on-reserve children get. Off-reserve children, youth, families, and communities should get the same prevention services, the same quality services, and they should have their rights and needs respected just as much as children on reserve. Their voices should be heard and included just as much as people on reserve. And they should be just as included in the negotiations and just as protected by the dispute resolution mechanism.

This is because 76% of children who are investigated by child welfare agencies actually live off reserve. And off-reserve child welfare agencies also do not focus on structural drivers of poverty. Off-reserve child welfare agencies also do not have the structure necessary to help families with what they truly need instead of taking children away. There have been many studies on improving the off-reserve child welfare system, but the reform has been slow. Hopefully, a revised and improved Final Settlement Agreement is what it takes to get the ball rolling on reform off-reserve.

Everything that we talked about on how child and family services should be reformed should be enshrined in law. All the changes that we have stated we need to make, changes that are called for by First Nations communities and experts, should be enshrined into law so that any progress made for children and families does not backslide if different governments come into power.

All the different aspects and elements of a reformed Final Settlement Agreement on child and family service reform need to work together and be implemented together. Because each aspect of reform supports all the other aspects of reform and improves the situation just for First Nations children and families.

Now let's talk about Jordan's Principle.

Jordan River Anderson was a child born in Norway House Cree Nation. He had many medical conditions, and the provincial and federal governments were fighting over who had the responsibility to pay for his care. Because the provincial and federal governments couldn't reach a decision, he ended up having to stay in the hospital and he died there, having lived his whole life in a hospital rather than in his family home.

Jordan's Principle is a law that states that if a First Nations child needs a product or service, they have to be given that, and questions about who should pay for it should be sorted out later. This includes things like health, mental health, education, cultural learning, developmental therapy, mobility devices, accessibility, and more.

Unfortunately, the government has been taking a really reductive and narrow approach when it comes to Jordan's Principle, and not giving all children the services they need. Because of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal's orders, much progress has been made with how Canada is providing Jordan's Principle services, and many children have fortunately received services. However, issues continue to remain.

One of the problems is that Canada has narrowed the definition of who can receive Jordan's Principle services. The Human Rights Tribunal has said that all First Nations children recognized by their communities, as well as all children on reserves, can access Jordan's Principle supports. The government however does not recognize this.

The methods of receiving and processing requests for Jordan's Principle services are ineffective and inefficient. People are calling the national and regional call centres asking for help and they're not being able to reach anyone. As it is today, it takes a long time to process requests and actually deliver the necessary services to the children. This means that children go a long time without receiving the support they need. This is also true for children who urgently need support right now, due to a medical or psychological emergency or other circumstances.

Jordan's Principle requests need to be fulfilled in a timely manner. One of the necessary steps to do this is to automate the intake process, since currently an unknown number of cases are not opened and categorized in a timely manner. Another step is by having the call centres be adequately staffed, and letting families indicate if their requests are urgent. Call centres need to be accessible to everyone who needs them. And urgent requests, such as those involving the death of a biological family member or non-related caregiver, threat of imminent physical harm, or an emergency in the community, should be given priority and fulfilled within twelve hours. It needs to be easy to indicate if your request is urgent and there should be enough employees to deal with urgent requests. Requests under $500 should be automatically granted since it takes more than $500 to process a request.

Another inefficiency is the fact that Indigenous Services Canada is taking too long to reimburse service providers who are delivering services to children under Jordan's Principle. This is even leading some service providers to not being able to provide the necessary services anymore. Canada should reimburse all service providers within 15 days and all families within 5 days. The debt that any families or service providers went into when delivering children their needs should also be paid off by the government.

Many requests are being denied which should not be denied. Requests that are in the best interests of the child are often denied, and 88% of the requests that are re-reviewed after their initial denial are granted, meaning that the initial granting/denying process is flawed.

There is also insufficient accountability in Jordan's Principle service provision processes, and problems and injustices do not get remedied. There needs to be an independent, credible, and effective Jordan's Principle complaints mechanism that publicly reports Canada's compliance with Jordan's Principle. This mechanism must be able to force the state and service providers to make necessary changes. Accountability mechanisms also need robust measures to stop retaliation against anyone speaking out about problems.

There is a large backlog of Jordan's Principle requests that need to be looked at. As of March 2024, there were about 82 000 backlogged requests. Many of these requests could be urgent and have not been opened. The government must fix this backlog at the utmost speed and ensure that it doesn't happen again. The current "surge" strategy to deal with this backlog isn't sustainable or enough.

Different federal programs related to Jordan's Principle services are not well-coordinated, and if they were well-coordinated then children, youth, and families could get the services they need more efficiently and with less delays and waits.

There are some First Nations organizations that are providing some Jordan's Principle services. These organizations need to be well-funded and well-supported so that they can deliver the services people need.

Jordan's Principle needs to be able to cover other needs as well that it currently does not. One of these needs is prenatal supports, such as vitamins, medicine, etc. These supports help children be born healthy and stay healthy for their lives. Another need is housing. Obviously, children need and deserve safe, sturdy, well-ventilated housing, and Jordan's Principle services should cover this as well.

The government is making excuses for why it's not properly following Jordan's Principle, but the truth is, this is a human rights matter and following Jordan's Principle is a human rights obligation that supercedes other laws.

There are negotiations underway to create a Final Settlement Agreement for Jordan's Principle reform, similar to the one on child and family services reform.

Unfortunately, the negotiations for the Jordan's Principle Final Settlement Agreement face the same problems as the one for child and family services did. The negotiations have been confidential, meaning that the public, including the public of First Nations communities, have not been able to have any kind of a say in making the Final Settlement Agreement. The public of the First Nations communities themselves were not consulted in making this agreement, and not all First Nations communities were able to send representatives even. Therefore there are likely going to be many problems with the Draft Final Settlement Agreement on Jordan's Principle once it comes out.

The good news though, for both child and family services and Jordan's Principle services, is that the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal has to approve the two Final Settlement Agreements before they can be put into action. The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal can and has made orders to Canada to stop its discriminatory conduct. While Canada obviously has not done that, due to the Tribunal it has been making some steps towards progress. The good thing about Tribunal orders is that they don't expire when a new government comes into power, they can only expire if a final settlement agreement gets agreed to by the parties and passed by the Tribunal. Canada evidently still needs the guidance of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal, and will continue to need that guidance until effective reform is enshrined in law that is properly followed. The Tribunal should retain its jurisdiction after accepting and passing Final Settlement Agreements on Jordan's Principle and child and family services reform, to make sure the reforms are actually carried out in the proper way in the real world.

Education is also something vital and lifechanging, which is underfunded on reserves. A good quality education is a basic human need and human right that every human needs and deserves access to. It helps people use their cognitive functions and develop their ability to be lifelong learners. It is an important tool for learning about the world and considering different perspectives and experiences. It is an important place for learning social skills and making friends. The list of important things education teaches us all is endless. Good quality education is vital for the wellbeing of a child and their healthy development into an adult.

Education also changes entire communities. With education, people can pursue their dreams and become the things they want to be. If children can grow up and pursue the careers they want, then there will be a lot of skilled and educated people in the community. This will increase the economic prosperity of the whole community and the economic opportunities the entire community has, as well as empowering the community to solve its other problems.

School can also be a place where people can learn about their own culture, their own language, their own religion, and their people's history. School can be a place where First Nations children are supported in being proud of who they are and the communities they are a part of.

But in order for education to be of adequate quality, schools need to be well-funded. They need to provide a safe, comfortable learning environment. They need to have enough up to date textbooks, well-stocked libraries in classrooms and in the school, they need computers to teach computer literacy, they need lab equipment and sports equipment and stationaries. They need space and infrastructure for playgrounds, gyms, labs. They need adequate heating, cooling, and ventilation. They need good quality washrooms and water fountains. They need enough teachers, and education assistants for students with special needs. They need money for field trips. The list goes on.

But schools on reserves don't have the funding to pay for all of the things they need. Therefore, children on reserves don't get the good quality education they need. And they don't have as good quality education as children off reserves do. This is incredibly unequal, unfair, and unjust, and it violates the inherent rights of children on reserves. Therefore, the government must fund schools on reserve as much as schools for non-Indigenous children are funded.

Services on reserves in general are funded less than services off reserve. This includes housing, income support, medical and mental healthcare, job training, childcare, and the list goes on. There is more poverty and greater need on reserves, because of the racism, colonialism, generational trauma, and lack of job opportunities. And yet there are less services on reserves and those services are worse quality. This is why we must adopt the Spirit Bear Plan.

"Spirit Bear calls on:

CANADA to immediately comply with all rulings by the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal ordering it to immediately cease its discriminatory funding of First Nations child and family services. The order further requires Canada to fully and properly implement Jordan's Principle

PARLIAMENT to ask the Parliamentary Budget Officer to publicly cost out the shortfalls in all federally funded public services provided to First Nations children, youth and families (education, health, water, child welfare, etc.) and propose solutions to fix it.

GOVERNMENT to consult with First Nations to co-create a holistic Spirit Bear Plan to end all of the inequalities (with dates and confirmed investments) in a short period of time sensitive to children's best interests, development and distinct community needs.

GOVERNMENT DEPARTMENTS providing services to First Nations children and families to undergo a thorough and independent 360° evaluation to identify any ongoing discriminatory ideologies, policies or practices and address them. These evaluation must be publicly available.

ALL PUBLIC SERVANTS including those at a senior level, to receive mandatory training to identify and address government ideology, policies and practices that fetter the implementation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission's Calls to Action."

Some specific examples of how needs within First Nations reserves are being unmet is the housing situation, the clean water situation, and the disaster recovery situation. A lot of housing on reserves is unsafe, mouldy, under insulated, and doesn't have the utilities that houses need. There are also not enough houses for everyone. Instead of helping communities build better houses, and enough houses for everyone, the government is not doing enough to solve this issue. As well, 618 First Nations communities do not have clean water. They have to buy water instead of having access to it in their house. And this is more than many people can afford. And there is also not enough for natural disaster relief. The climate crisis is causing reserves (as well as many other communities) to face natural disasters such as forest fires and floods. The government is not doing enough to help on reserve communities rebuild after these traumatic and destructive events.

Children can only be healthy if their communities are healthy. Children are tied to and connected with their communities and community members. What is good for the whole community also leads to children having better lives and better childhoods. Healthy and thriving communities can raise healthy and thriving children. And of course, children grow up into community members.

Indigenous Services Canada is claiming that they'll make programs to help the community with their needs, but they're not giving any information about those programs. As well, they are taking far too long to implement these programs, leaving people to suffer. These claims are therefore not trustworthy and it is unlikely that Indigenous Services Canada is developing programs that will actually be effective at meeting community needs.

Indigenous Services Canada, which runs the service provision of all services on reserves, is blatantly inadequate at their job. They are and have always been a colonial institution. They need to be phased out and replaced with an Indigenous Treasury Board that will be run by Indigenous people and will ensure communities and service providers are getting the funding and support they need. For example, the Indigenous Treasury Board and First Nations organizations should be the ones delivering funding from the federal government to child and family services, as this will help communities and service providers have an organization that truly fights for them and their needs to the government.

There are many problems with the current government department. They do not provide adequate and efficient services for people, as well as not being interested in non-discrimination and justice. For example, Indigenous Services Canada develops and implements its own training on cultural sensitivity and other issues. This of course isn't accountable. As well, Indigenous Services Canada isn't self-reporting the problems that happen in their organization, because why would they?

Despite the problems with Indigenous Services Canada, there is an attempt to reform the department. There are ways to make this reform more effective. First of all, the committee that is making a plan to prevent recurrence of discrimination in Indigenous Services Canada should report directly to Chiefs in Assembly and the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal. The department should be reformed according to the rulings of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal. The committee planning to reform Indigenous Services Canada must be well-funded, remain non-political, and their recommendations must be followed.

Children are the most important people in First Nations cultures. They are also the most important people in general, for obvious reasons. It is incredibly important that the rights and wellbeing of children, their families, and their communities are given utmost importance. We have an opportunity now to improve the system for First Nations children. Public pressure has been the biggest factor in causing the government to act thus far. And we will continue the pressure until we achieve real change for children.

Please fulfill your obligations towards First Nations children both on and off reserves by creating actually good Final Settlement Agreements on Jordan's Principle and child and family service reform, properly delivering Jordan's Principle services, properly funding education, and properly funding all services on reserves. Also replace or at least reform Indigenous Services Canada. Thank you for reading our letter and please take our concerns to heart and act upon theme.

Sincerely,

———

Here are the people you should send your letter to:

-Prime Minister Trudeau:

-Minister of Crown-Indigenous Relations Gary Anandasangare

-Minister of Indigenous Services Patty Hajdu

-Your own Member of Parliament

Malina-Deprassi was a world of extremes. There were the Big Men and their Wives and Sisters. Everything about them was big. They had big houses that were filled with furniture and ornaments of every kind. They owned big acres of land in which thousands of workers toiled and laboured. They had big closets filled with many fine clothes and shoes. They ran big factories in which many workers hurried and huddled. They had big parties that their many servants had to prepare big feasts for. They had big libraries in which towered big shelves full of books. And they had big houses of worship filled with big statues to their gods. Amanini, the sun. And Omonapati, the moon.

Amnini the sun and Omnapti the moon were the gods of the Small People. Omnapti was the guiding light of the darkness. The love and resilience and hope that got them through their pain and suffering. Amnini was the guiding light of day. The love and harmony and hope they dreamed would guide them once the World to Be became.

The Small People had small huts they crowded into, made of clay and of straw. They had small meals that didn't give them enough nutrition. They worked themselves to the bone in the mines and factories and mansions and fields and building sites of the Big People. They had clothes with worn threads and shoes with worn soles. But they had each other. And from each other they had hope that was vaster than the skies and deeper than the seas. Hope made with love. Made with spirit. And other things that can never possibly be tangible and therefore existed beyond size.

Ardofresi was a Big Man. He was a powerful man. He had a fortune which he had spent his whole life amassing. He had certificates and honours from the most prestigious of academies. He had a great booming voice with which he said many things. And he had a great many people who had to listen to that voice. He slept in a bed of the softest silk and velvet. And he ate meals of fine, expensive ingredients.

Pirunia was his Wife. She had stern, dark eyes and an upwards pointing nose. She wore dresses of fine fabric and jewels with shining stones. She read a great many books and poems. She played a great many fine instruments. She had her servants plant roses in her garden of every colour. She helped her husband ensure his workers were giving their blood and breath and bone marrow to their jobs.

She and her husband owned a gold mine together. They did not mine the gold. They did not go down into the tunnels and chip and chip and chip away at the rock until their bones and muscles and joints ached. The did not walk through the cloying shadow and suffocating heat. They did not carry crates through unstable tunnels that could collapse at any moment. They did however write many papers and give meagre coins to the Small People who worked the mines.

They lived on a swathe of land they called Ovalaki Estates.

Inama was a spirited girl. She had lost loved ones to the mines she now risked her own life in. She had a big heart and a rebellious spirit. She was headstrong and heart sure and believed in the prophecies of the World to Be. She was exhausted and angry and she felt as though she were living her life while drowning. She was built with the type of hate that was borne of love and the type of love that was fuelled by hate. And the two mixed in her the same way that winter mixed with summer at the edges that were spring and fall.

Akepo was a kind and caring boy. He was self-sacrificing. And he was quiet. He was quiet because he was listening to the silent whispers and the aching groans and secret promises of the world as it moved around him. He loved to hear Inama talk and he loved the way she understood him so well. He loved the unbreakable rebellion in her heart. He loved his people, and he wished that he had the words to express it. He did not expect to live long.

He didn't fear death. He welcomed it as peace. As did so many of the Small People who knew that they would find no peace in life. But he feared losing Inama. He feared losing his family. His family by blood, and his family by bond. He knew would always be with to his family by spirit. His family of every other Small Person that had ever existed.

Inama and Akepo had so many people around them. Ties of blood and bond and shared experience and shared humanity. Every Small Person was an aunt or uncle or titi.* They had so much pain around them. Pain and loss and grief and degradation. They had to hold on to what they had with all they could. And they had to tell each other that they had each other.

They could not get married. A wedding at the Big Cathedrals cost more money than anyone ever had. And they couldn't get Water-Bonded. A Water-Bonding needed to be done with the whole community and their community unequivocally found them too young to make such a decision. But they could and they did find secret holes in the twisted maze of huts they lived in.

And so it came to be that one day Inama walked into a hut where her mothers and aunts and uncles and soul-siblings were and announced with trepidation that her cycles had been stopped for two months. Her loved ones were supportive. But finding a way to feed a growing young one was no easy task.

But they survived. Always they survived, collectively.

It was right around this time that Pirunia also came to expect a child. She got extra portions of the finest most expensive and flavourful foods prepared to support her growing appetite. And she got a nursery full of the most beautiful toys and dolls prepared. Ardofresi was feeling proud to have an heir to pass his name and legacy onto.

And so it came to be Wednesday, the day of rest and of prayer for the Big People. Ardofresi and Pirunia went to the Cathedral and they sat in rows on the polished benches with the dozens of other worshippers dressed in fine clothes.

The Priest got up to give the sermon. But suddenly a strange glow overtook him. His eyes went black. And from his mouth came a sound like a thousand different voices speaking at once. It gave the prophecy. And the prophecy was this:

The babe that is born to the ones who helps the miners shall play a key role in bringing forth a new era of prosperity and glory. This babe that is born on the land that is known by the name of Ovalaki Estates shall be feared by their enemies and loved by all else. The babe that is first born on the fourth day of the fourth month under the unfiltered light of the full moon shall bring forth the will of the gods.

Pirunia and Ardofresi were beyond elated. They bought the softest bedding and the best food. They paid for the most esteemed doctors. They subtly bragged to their neighbours and friends.

They claimed that they gave the miners their gruel in the mornings and in the nights. They paid for the roofs over their heads and the clothes on their backs. That nobody helped the miners as they did.

In the meantime Inama and Akepo continued doing everything they could to give their fellow miners hope. To let them know that all the suffering would end and the pain would be over. They continued making sure everyone in their community felt like a community, felt seen and heard and understood.

The community loved these youths and they loved their community with the force of a thousand supernovas. People ensured that Inama got an extra helping of gruel, or an extra sip of water. They taught Akepo how to hold a baby and how to fold a nappy. They promised the pair that they would help mind the child when they could.

And they loved the soon-to-be child immensely. Because of this they were immensely pained to be bringing the baby into a world of suffering. They would much rather leave the child in the Spirit World with the gods. But they would give the new soul as much joy as they could.

Joy and suffering can coexist and often do. But that doesn't make the suffering lighter. But that doesn't make the joy less bright.

In Ovalaki Estates the Big People were clamouring for the approval of the couple of the prophecy. Ardofresi and Pirunia were buying all the best of everything for the baby. There was joyous boisterous music and there was sweet food and intricate stories and beauty.

Empty pots made of heavy metal can feel full.

And the picks and hammers and shovels that break rock are hard. Inama still continued to work through her pregnancy. She had no other choice. To not work was to go without pay was to starve. Not that she wasn't tempted to do just that. She choked on the heavy, hot air of the mine. She strained in the darkness. She kept working through screaming, aching muscles and she stood and walked for hours on end on swollen feet. She fought through the tired of her body, the tired of her mind, the tired of her soul. She squeezed her growing body through tight mine shafts. And she wept at the thought of her child having a similar life to her. But she endured.

Pirunia sat in soft chairs and lay on plush beds and walked in the garden among the flowers. She held her head up high. Knowing that she would be the mother of a prince. She got her servants to move her bed next to the largest window that faced where the moon was predicted to be in the sky.

It was a few weeks before Inama's due date that the Small People all over the lands started having Tied Dreams. People all over Malina-Deprassi were having the same dreams. Multiple people at once dreaming of the same thing. Every night there were people who had Tied Dreams in the silence of their sleep. Some people had dreams about a great storm raining down over the lands. Some had dreams of a raging fire burning through a forest of dead trees. Some had dreams of fresh plants taking root and reaching their roots down into the ground. Some had dreams of a little girl pulling fruit from a tree. Some had dreams of large looming stone walls cracking and crumbling under the frosts and thaws of the seasonal cycle. And still some had more dreams. Until everyone had had a Tied Dream to tell their community of.

People passed around the dreams like sweet, rare apples. And they discussed and relished in them until they were able to stand a little bit taller, until they were able to lift their eyes with hope.

One day Inama was about to walk home when Ardofresi in his fine clothes and upturned nose stopped her. She'd had been working though it was very nearly her time and she wanted nothing more than to go home. He looked at her but did not see her. Did not notice anything about her, including her pregnancy. He only saw that she was a miner and he was her boss, and he could tell her what to do. So he demanded of her that she transport some expensive fine silk linens from the marketplace to his house. She did not want to walk such a way and be so far from home when she was almost at her due date. But she knew she needed this job. And her community needed her to be in good graces with the bosses. Because without money there was only death. So she had to.

She did not go alone, however. She explained her plight to two of her coworkers and they went with her to keep her safe. Their names were Shenaba and Otolia. So it was arm in arm with two women that she walked towards the marketplace and then walked towards Ovalaki Estates, struggling her way through cramps and pains.

It was the fourth day of the fourth month. The air was cool and dry with winter. The sun shone brightly in the sky. Pirunia waited in her bed as she felt the pains wash over her. She had changed the glass on the window so that it was made of the finest most clear material available. And she cut down all the trees that the window looked over so that the moonlight could reach it undisturbed.

It was sunset by the time the three ladies arrived with the fine silks to the estate. They crossed over the large sprawling grounds, over the rolling crop fields, to deliver their packages to the lady lying on the silk bed. They were sharply rebuked for being late by the Big Man who met them at the door. A relative of Ardofresi. The three then went back on their way, Inama hanging onto the two women's shoulders as they supported her.

It was by the time that they reached a sparsely wooded thicket near the edge of the estate that Inama could not go on. It was her time to bring new life into the world. Neither Shenaba nor Otolia were the midwives for their communities. But they had helped at many births and they knew that they had to help this baby come out into the world.

They supported Inama until they found a wide moonbeam in the thicket to lay her under, so that they would have light under which they could work. She lay there on the ground, in the cold evening air, screaming in pain. Shenaba and Otolia washed their hands in the cold clean water of a nearby stream. Otolia sat between Inama's legs and Shenaba sat beside Inama clutching her hands.

They gave her all the strength they could. Bringing a child into the world is a heavy, emotional task that requires an incredible amount of strength. And the Small People have survived thus far because they draw strength from each other.

Inama looked up to the moon and the moon looked down towards her. Omnapti also gave her Their strength as They did with every single Small Child born under the light of the moon.

Inama pushed an pushed through the pain while Otolia encouraged her and told her what to do, holding the child as she emerged. Shenaba let Inama clutch tight to her hands and she prayed to the gods with everything she had, low melodic voice adding rhythm to Inama's piercing screams.

Finally the baby was born into the world, crying loudly into the cold night air. Otolia quickly passed her to Inama. And Inama clutched her tight to her chest. Shenaba also wrapped her arms around the baby, providing as much protection as she could. And the three of hen stayed huddled there while Otolia whispered the prayers that were said when a baby was born.

Inama regretted having brought a child into a world that was filled with so much suffering. She briefly wished the child would die before shy got to have a chance to understand how underprivileged she was on the scale of things.

But Inama remembered the Tied Dreams that her people had been having. And she had hope that maybe the World to Be would become sooner than she had thought. Then she had hope for the child.

She named the child Aminichaya, which means the hope within the destruction.

She feared what would happen if the four of them were found still on Ovalaki Estates.

And hour later Pirunia and Ardofresi's child was born with the best doctors in the land in attendance. He was named Javeshen, meaning powerful one, and he was placed in a crib lined with fine cloths.

The next morning a Small Man came pulling a heavy wooden cart piled with crates of fresh fruit which he was delivering to Ovalaki Estates.

Shenaba asked if he could carry Inama and the child back to the part of the land where there were the huts of the Small People, and he agreed.

All around the houses of the Big People there was music and dancing and festivities celebrating the birth of the new leader.

A mother sat on the hard wooden floor of a cart being pulled along a bumpy road. She was aching from having just given birth. Close to her chest she held a tiny baby girl.

The night is dark and thick and it falls heavy, hot, and suffocating over the land.

An grass is tall and it is sharp and it droops slightly as it lines the ditch of the dusty, worn road. The dusty road that if you look down it will look you in the eyes and say Yes. I'm here. Come to me.

The moon hangs high in the sky but all its light appears faded. It's just a circle of white ringed by gray as the night is just an all-expansive starless sky of black. The only light there is shines from the piercing rays of a gas station light far off in the distance, too far to illuminate anything. The night is unnatural. The night is eerie. The night is heavy.

This is the place where nature and the city clashes. Nature is overpowered. Of course. By the city's snaking fingers that press into everything. The tired-terror-rage-hurt in the eyes of the men and the hopeless desolate love in the mouths of the women. And the sorrow snd silence in the people who are not either. The way the grass dies in the polluted dust of the roadside. But there is living grass still. There is kindness and cleverness in the eyes of the men. Anger and confidence in mouths of the women. Secrets, hope, and wisdom in the people who are not either. And there is the way the night falls like a disguise, like a cloak. Like a blanket.

The crickets chirp and buzz, silently cheering me on.

I am a shadow of a girl. I am a girl lost in the shadows. Trailing behind another girl who always, always, always blocks all the light. I am the silent one. The unseen one. I am the one who is always nothing and no one.

But not anymore. The air is hot and humid and yet it feels cool around my body. Around my face, around my arms, around the soles of my bare feet.

The dew on the grass brushes against my ankles.

Miri kissed me three days ago. Before I set out onto this journey with the blocker of my light. She told me to be brave. Be confident. Be brutal. And I'm not brave. I'm broken. But when Miri kisses me hope runs down like molten gold over the broken, jagged edges of my heart. Pulls them together.

So for her I am brave. For us both.

The other girl is walking in front of me. She always is. She is walking slowly. Even her steps are haughty. And I don't quite know how she manages that. As always, my steps are quiet.

I walk faster though. Just a tiny, immeasurable bit faster than her. The air around me grows immeasurably colder. The path is full of rocks and broken bits of concrete from when the road was functional. It digs into my bare feet. She in her thick-soled shoes cannot feel it.

Seven days ago Miri and I were hiding in the alley sharing breathless open-mouthed kisses, hands brushing up under each other's shirts. She whispered my name over and over again.

Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali I love you.

And she told me she sabotaged the engine of the car. The world smelled faintly of exhaust and heat as it always did and for the first time in my life I cried. And she moved to quickly wipe the tears from my face with her gentle hands so that I would not be caught.

The night is still. The world is tensed with anticipation. Waiting.

The girl gets out her cellphone, and dials the number of her father.

"Hello, daddy? Yes the car broke down. We're. We're on our way to the gas station now. But gee whiz cheese and crackers, the road is so long and it's so hot out here. I need a fan or an air conditioner of something. We don't have any of that here now do we? Christ on a bicycle I'm too delicate and sensitive for this."

I wait until she finishes her phone call. None of this will work if she's still on the phone with her father.

The moonlight softly illuminates the top of her hair. Her phone's screen shines pale against the skin of her cheek. She looks eerie. Frightening. Though I don't remember ever not being frightened of her. It's good that I know exactly where she is. It's good that I know exactly what she is.

One year ago Miri and I were sitting on our knees, facing each other, on the floor of the garage. Her eyes sparkled golden in the midsummer sunset light. Her dark hair frizzed in the humidity. She was chanting softly. Lost in a meditative trance. Lost in my dark eyes. I was lost in hers. And the words I chanted laced and wove through the words she chanted to create a beautiful whispering harmony. Beneath us the runes glowed. They were made of feathers from the seagulls and crows that soared in the sky, arranged into the shapes of thin loops forming a circle. The birds soared and squawked and screamed free in that endless blue and they took care of us. We continued chanting as the sun's rays dipped below the horizon. We took the stolen glass jar that we had previously filled with rainwater. And we held it up against the horizon so that it caught the last of the sun's rays. We soaked all the feathers inside the water. As the twilight bathed everything blue we continued chanting, both holding the jar of feathers in both of our hands.

And as the light finally faded we solemnly took twelve steps to the sickly, dying tree holding on desperately to the crumbling ground beside the garage. It was fading, unlike the bright domesticated flowering plants carefully maintained in the front entrance of the house. And we poured out the contents of the jar over its roots.

Brother Tree. You who bend and bow to the city and its rulers as we do. Brother tree. You who hold the life force of Mother Earth as we do. Brother Tree. Aid us in our quest to restore what has been lost and to build what has been broken. Aid us in our quest to bring back life and hope into the hearts of the people.

And now I watch as the light on her cheek flickers into nothing. She puts her phone in her purse and scans the horizon. I'm stalking even closer to her. And as quick as a striking stake my arms twist around her throat. She chokes out a scream. I squeeze as hard as I can but she kicks and claws and writhes and sends us both tumbling to the ground. She gains the upper hand for a moment. Lays her upper body on top of mine and pins my arms to my side. But I bite her cheek hard enough to draw blood. And she screams and jerks away. I spring up and then we are on each other. Biting and grabbing and kicking and pushing in the dirt. Until finally I am straddling over her, with both my hands around her throat. A vice grip fuelled by the unending, incomprehensible pain and rage and desolation and suffocation that has been my life thus far.

I smile the most deranged, glorious smile as I feel her breathing slow, as I see her struggling get weaker and weaker as her body becomes limp. She goes still and silent under me, eyes wide open and completely spaced out. I hold her down for a few minutes, just to be sure it worked.

Four days ago a great storm swept through the lands. It brought with it pouring, torrential rain that was freezing cold, colder than any ice. Just as Miri and I had summoned. As everyone huddled inside the house, Miri and I placed the jar on the ground by the tree. The tree was stronger now. It stood up taller. It's leaves didn't droop. It had a healthy sheen. Rain hit the leaves, and soaked in the life force and essence of the tree. As the world stood in that untameable standstill, water rolled down the leaves, different droplets coalescing together into thick, cold drops. And as the storm raged on and on and on the jar filled with tree-soaked rainwater.

Miri and I got a small reprieve. Could claim that we were trapped in the garage due to the rain. We lay on our straw mat, with wet hair, and kissed. She straddled her body on top of me and then bent down low to kiss me. I lightly dug my fingers into her waist. Brushed them up and down her thighs. She smelled like heat and sweat and dawn and the ocean mist.

Everything around me is dark. Pitch black like a page with ink spilled all over it. Like all the world is nothing. Nothing but a thick, almost tangible black. The road is abandoned. Nobody can see us. Still I carry the girl's limp, cold body towards the ditch, far from the road. Far from bright headlights. In case anyone speeds by. I keep walking until I can see the familiar glow of moonlight shining on water.

Thank you for showing me the way, Brother Moon, I whisper. I lay her body down beside the water. Then, I step into the water to see how deep it is. It's a really dirty pond full of fish waste and mud but to a large extent water is water. I get the small vial full of the tree water I have hidden away in my underclothes.

Four days ago Miri and I kneeled on either side of the water jar, in the dead of night. Softly chanting chanting and chanting and chanting until the water flowed blue like the horizon. We bottled a bit of it in a stolen laboratory microfuge tube, given to us by the boys across the alley who got it from someone else. And we slept curled around each other as we've done for years.

I bring the little tube up to the light of the moon.

"Brother Moon. Father Sky. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Please may I be granted the shape of the one who held the power. May I be granted the shape of the one who held the keys. So that I too may hold the keys and so that I too may hold the power. Transfigure my face and my throat and my body until the day when my people can be truly free. So that I might walk through the world unburdened and fool the the ones in the high into letting my people go. Brother Moon. Father Sky. Sibling Fire. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Brother Tree. Siblings Stars. Sibling rain. Sister Sun. All the forces of the world. Twist my face into a falsehood so that I may bring the reign of truth into the time."

I bring the vial up to the sky then I pour the water over my hair and forehead.

The world seems to still around me. The wind starts blowing, strong and cool and quick over my face and through my hair. I feel as if I am on fire, but it isn't painful. It's invigorating. Energizing. Finally I look up. I am wearing shoes. I have on her soft clothes. My hair is in the long, intricate braids she wore. My skin is soft and smooth like hers. I look into the bag that I am now holding. I pull out the phone and take a picture of myself.

Yes. I have her body. I look just like her. And I snap a picture of her. She has my body. Good. I'll miss my body but I know I will have it back once the work is done. But now I will leave the girl to rot and be picked at by the fishes.

Two years ago Miri came into my life. She was thirteen years old. Her parents were dead. Her baby had been taken from her. And she was utterly broken. I pieced her back together in the far too short moments between dusk and nighttime and between dawn and morning. She pieced me together in the fleeting moments we stole.

I briskly walk to the gas station, testing out my voice. Sure, I sound like her. But I don't quite speak like her yet. So I have to practice. I call her father, my voice wavering. I pretend that Ayali (me) attacked me (her) but "I" managed to fight "her" off.

In about an hour I get to the gas station and I wait inside until he picks me up.

Two years ago I had been alone for nine years and my life was infinitely worse than death. And then Miri told me that I was beautiful, wonderful, amazing. I was everything that was good in the universe and I was deeply beloved by more people than I could count.

And so I sleep for the first time in a large, soft bed. And I sneak Miri in there too. Claim that I'm oh so tired from my ordeal and I couldn't possibly sleep alone and I need her to stay up and stand watch. We hide under the covers of the bed and kiss each other senseless.

Later we to go live in a separate apartment away from prying eyes. And we create a space where there are no power imbalances. And we plan.

I chat with the girl's uncle, who thinks I am her. He's very high up in the military. I manage to guile him into giving me the locations and entry codes for all the armouries.

Six months later all out war breaks out. It's winter. It's cold. It's nighttime. The winter solstice actually. An auspicious time. The moon hangs bright and still, tinted the slightest bit blue. We march all together. Sharing in each other's heat. Sharing in each other's anger. Sharing in each other's strength. More people than I ever knew existed. We storm the armoires by the thousands. We easily take out the guards. Though they shoot at us. Though our comrades fall. There are simply too many people to shoot and we fall upon them and beat them to death with our bare hands while others flow into the doors of the weapons vaults. It's the most exhilarating night of my life. I had never even seen that many people all right there at once before.

And we take the weapons and we run with them. Sure, we don't know how to use them. At first. But those of us who had been spying on the military - which is many of us - soon teach the others. And then it's all stops pulled out. We know that if this war drags on and on we will starve. Normally this would be more than enough to stop us from even pursuing it. But we outnumber them two to one. We have most of the weapons. The odds are in our favour and the chips are on our side. We know that this is the one chance to get free. And freedom is worth dying for. If it means our children will live. We can win this. And we do win. Easily. It's a matter of weeks.

People did die though. People died in droves. And it was terrible. It was bloody. It was ugly. It was gruesome. It was painful. For them and for all the ones they left behind. It was something that shouldn't've happened. But they died for the new generations. For the future. And for the Earth and Sky and all Their Children.

Two years later I'm back in my proper body. I'm surrounded by my community. I'm married to Miri, and with my four-year-old stepchild Novalee. She's so small. And she's back with us. Reunited with her mother at the same age in which I was separated from mine. And she can be a child. The air is clearer than it ever has been. The water more flowing. The ground is cleaner. There are more plants than before. The moon shines brightly and so do the stars. And people have peace in their eyes. Have joy.

Now Jesus Christ went up to Texas

Mary, Joesph too

You made them toil, the folks of Moses

So what will we do?

Now baby Christ he had a bad cough

While you dressed in jewels

So now your burning won't be enough

You're the devil's fuel

———

Jesus is among us

Every single day

All those who come to us

We should not turn away

———

You say there's no room at the guest house

No room in town hall

You say there's no food in the grain house

That you'll share with all

You say His family is unwelcome

Can come no further

They should go back to where they came from

To fear and hunger

———

Jesus is among us

Every single day

All those who come to us

We should not turn away

———

You helped King Herod beat his rival

Made them work like slaves

The desperate folks who seek survival

Your soul won't be saved

Each and every king you have had

Hates the hurts and poor

With hands that are shut guts that are glad

Exploits and bars them more

———

Jesus is among us

Every single day

All those who come to us

We should not turn away

———

True Jesus Christ our God and Saviour

Is in every

One who comes to us for their shelter

Migrants, refugees

And if our people turn a blind eye

To their suffering

We're the ones who will actually die

For to greed we cling

So this story begins as so many do with me standing at the bus stop outside of my university, waiting for the bus. The day was cold, but not colder than usual for late November. Cold enough for it to hurt so much if you were outside all day, but not cold enough to kill you. The snow was falling slowly, making the world seem soft.

There was a shelter made of metal and glass at the bus stop. A metal frame and glass walls. There were no benches or chairs in the shelter. There used to be but they got taken down, so all we have now to sit on is the concrete floor. I was outside this shelter, but I noticed that there were two men inside of it. I didn't pay much attention to them.

Until I heard a voice from the shelter. It was a loud voice, yet strangely meek all the same. One of the men was asking all of us at the bus stop if we had naloxone (this is also known as narcan to those who don't know). This is a medicine that stabilizes people who overdosed, so that they can stay alive until they get the medical care they need at the hospital. At first I thought nothing was wrong, maybe he forgot his own kit somewhere. So I replied that I was sorry but I didn't have any.

But I quickly realized that maybe he needed it, maybe someone was having an overdose. I asked the man if he needed the naloxone, telling him that I knew where to get some, and he showed me what was happening inside the shelter. Inside the shelter, there was an unconscious man lying on the ground, who was clearly overdosing.

I didn't feel any emotions at all. It was like my brain was on autopilot. I was acting entirely on instinct. I gave the conscious man my cellphone and told him to dial 911, the emergency number where I live. The man was trying to do CPR on the unconscious person but it was clear that he didn't know how to do CPR. I urged him again to call 911 and told him I was going to get naloxone.

I ran into my university, I ran up the stairs, and I walked as fast as I could through the school, until I reached the student union building. Inside the student union building there was an information event going on about harm reduction, aka how to help people struggling with addiction. I thought that there would be some naloxone kits there. That they were probably distributing naloxone kits to people who came to the event.

I was worried for a moment that the information event was over, but it wasn't. I told the girl at the desk that someone was having an overdose at the bus stop outside and I needed a naloxone kit. She told me she didn't know if she had any. She searched briefly, and found none. But she told me that in the student groups room they probably had naloxone kits.

I asked her where the student groups room was, and she went with me to the room, which was behind a glass door on the other side of the cafeteria next to us. There I explained my situation again to the two girls at the administrative desk. They got out a naloxone kit. I told them that I didn't know how to use it, so one of the two girls at the administration desk came with me.

We ran through the school, and then to the bus stop. It was difficult, running all this way, because I was somewhat out of shape. But I'm really glad that we did run, because it means we got there quicker.

Once we got there, we saw two ambulances parked on the road beside the bus stop, their lights flashing. We also saw a small crowd of paramedics and security guards around the unconscious man. The unconscious man was lying on the ground outside the shelter now. There were paramedics kneeling over him and an oxygen mask over his face.

The security guards told me and the other lady to not to come too close, and they thanked us for getting naloxone. They said that our naloxone wasn't needed, they had their own naloxone kits and everything else that they needed. But that they appreciated what we did and that we did a great job.

The lady from the student groups administrative desk told me that things seemed under control, and she took the naloxone kit and started walking back towards the student union building. I thanked her for her help twice and saw her off.

The man who was with the unconscious man before, the man who I gave my phone to so he could call 911, he was in the shelter. He gestured to me from inside the shelter and held my phone up. I went around the back of the shelter, the two of us looking at and gesturing to each other, and I went to the entrance of the shelter. He passed me my phone and said thank you. I said you're welcome.

There wasn't anything else for me to do, so I walked to the next bus stop a few blocks down the road. I was thanking God for sending the paramedics and praying to God to save the man's life. I kept praying while I was on the bus.

I resolved to keep a naloxone kit with me in my backpack from now on. Where I live, in Canada, naloxone kits are free at the pharmacy. One kit lasts two years. I resolved to go to my pharmacy when I got the chance and get a naloxone kit to keep with me whenever I go out. You never know when you'll be in a situation such as this one. You never know when you might see someone overdosing. Maybe next time I won't be lucky enough to be beside a university or another building in which there's naloxone kits available.

I resolved to also watch some videos teaching me how to use naloxone so that I know how to use the kit and how to administer the medicine if I am in a situation like this again. I have learned how to use naloxone one time before, but I forgot how to use it and I need a reminder.

I will close by saying this. Nobody deserves to die from an overdose. And nobody can be blamed for being addicted. A wise woman who had a difficult road to recovery from drugs once said that addiction starts and ends with pain. Everyone has a different reason why they became addicted.

Everyone has a different pain they were trying to hide from, or a different naivety that lead them down this path. But people who struggle with addiction need help, support, kindness, compassion, and resources. They need medical help, mental health help, and a better situation. The last thing they need or deserve is judgement.

Please pray for the people who struggle with addiction, and the people who are at risk of it.

It's nighttime. An hour until I have to go to bed. My work for the day is over. Weapons training practice is done. I've had dinner. And now I'm not hanging out in the tents with the others. I'm lying on the ground under a tree. It's cold. Autumn has just begun to set in, summer flickering out. The hustle and bustle of the camp is silenced but still people flow from one place to another, oblivious to me as I lay under the tree thinking. That's good. I'm not in the mood for conversation. I hope people will leave me alone.

I think about my mother. I want to make her proud. I want to make her feel joy at the young woman I have become. But I don't know if I can. I know, I know she loves me no matter what. She's the kind of woman with an open, kind heart that loves unapologetically and unconditionally. But I need to make her happy. I need to make her proud. She put her life on the line for me. She escaped her master's house despite how dangerous that was. She trekked through miles of hostile territory with a six-year-old, a two-year-old, and me. I was only a year old when my mother took me and my siblings and she fled. She didn't want us to live the kind of life she had lived. She wanted better for us. She wanted hope.

The war had just broken out. Slaves all over the Empire were revolting. People couldn't take it anymore. They told themselves that anything was better than to continue living in slavery, than to raise the new generations in slavery. And they were right. I'd rather die than live as a slave.

Because as hard as it is to live here, like this, I am considered a person. I am considered as a person, not a thing or an asset to be used. Not a piece of machinery meant to do work. I value that, above everything. The right to be thought of as a person.

But that doesn't mean I'm happy. The war has stretched on for twelve years and there is no end in sight. We're losing people - people who would rather die standing up to the Empire than be under its heel, but people nonetheless. It has gone on for most of my life. And as much as I know I should hold onto hope, I can't.

After everything my mother has done for me, I think, after everything she has done for my freedom, I am not doing enough to help the war effort. Sure I work hard to make sure the soldiers and other people are fed. Sure I work hard to prepare the medicine Issenne shows me how to prepare. I train for the day I will myself join the ranks of the freedom army. Yes I've even seen battle during the few times when there was a real crunch to get numbers up. I've bled and screamed and hurt for the war. I've exhausted myself working. I've been hungry and thirsty and cold. And I wanted to do all of it. Because bleeding and hungering and working and hurting for a better future is so much better than bleeding and hungering and working and hurting to increase the wealth of already rich people. And that's what slavery is. I'd rather die than be a slave. And I'm lucky that I can fight for my freedom. Our freedom.

But still it adds up to nothing, So much constant work and yet it all feels like nothing against the sheer force of the Empire rolling out over all of us. The Empire is stronger than steel and sharper than razors and the Empire is overwhelming. It's everywhere. And I am but a fly against it. I can't take on the force of the Empire. It's so huge, so all-consuming, so omnipotent and omnipresent.

I want to help. I just really, desperately want to help. But there's so much to do everywhere. There's so fucking goddamn much. And I'm weak and small and so so entirely insufficient. I don't know, I don't know. And I'm just ... I'm such a failure. People are dying on the battlefield. And I'm here lying on the ground. I can't do it. I can't stand up to the Empire. I can't save my people.

Issenne is walking up to me. I can tell that they're walking up to me and not just walking up. In the dark night their black birch-brown eyes look like pools of shadow. They move like a raven, as they always do. They are kind. They are good. I love them. But they're not the kind of person it's always easy to get along with. They're stubborn. They're brave. They came of age when Emperor Trudemius was on the throne and you could tell. There's always an anxiety about them. A fear behind the dark pools of their eyes. There's always a sense of protectiveness that's so strong it's almost unbearable. The younger people call them overbearing. Though by all means they're young themself. It's hard to remember that they're twenty-one though. Not when they never act like it. It makes sense though. They've lived through so much war. So much slavery and oppression and exploitation before that. So much loss. It made them who they are.

And who they are shines with pure divinity like the sun. Too bright, too hot, yet warming and nurturing at the same time.

It's hard to remember that I'm thirteen, too. This last year was the year where I really exited the safety of childhood - well, the meagre safety of childhood that can be found amidst war. It's been both exhilarating and terrifying to look at my new responsibilities and try to navigate them. But what if ... what if I can't?

"Charlotte?"

"Yeah?"

"What is it?"

"What?"

"You're not okay. Why?"

"I don't know. I'm tired."

"Physically or mentally?"

"In my ... in my soul."

"What are you thinking?"

"That I don't think ... I don't think I can do it."

"Who made you think that?" They puts their thumb on my wrist, feeling my pulse beat through them.

"No-one. Well, Anthem did. But to be fair she was only talking about her own fears and then I kind of internalized them."

"Oh. Yeah she's very unsure of herself. She's sweet. Full of dreams. But she's young. She doesn't recognize her power."

She is all that, and more. She's a little shadow of a teenaged girl. She moves through the world as if she's a part of the air itself. You can't notice her unless you try. We always have to make sure to try. She left her master's house eight years ago, all alone, six years old, and full of more rage and pain and overwhelming agony than she could possibly comprehend. She gave everything she could to the cause. Fought in battle after battle and bathed herself in the blood of the Empire, and in her own blood as well, as soon as she was old enough that people couldn't hold her back anymore. She is really a lightening bolt of action, with the eyes of a wolf and the snarl of a cougar. But underneath all that she's a broken girl who was raised by cruel masters rather than loving parents. She can't comprehend how she could possibly be good and beautiful and deserving of love. She can't comprehend how she could have something to give the world.

But at the end of the day she does have a point. Her and I are both young. Too young to properly know our place in the cause. And we're both lost children. And we're both just two children standing up against the might of an Empire that controls the entire world.

"Look at us though," I say. "We don't have power, do we? Not money nor power nor time nor anything. How can we change things?"

"We have spirit. We have each other. We have cleverness. Kindness.

Ingenuity. Cooperation. We have a will that they cannot break. And we have a fighting spirit that they cannot subdue. One that always finds a way. Even against the most insurmountable of odds it's always finds a way." Their voice is soft in the moonlight. Contemplative. Understanding.

"How?" I ask. "Just look around. Everything's a fucking mess. I can't even picture what the new world would look like."

"Let me tell you a story. A real one this time. I've got to warn you though it's fucked up."

"Okay?"

"This was back when Emperor Trudemius was on the throne. I was twelve at the time. You know how I was living in a plantation near the Imperial palace, right? And how the war had just started, and most of the people were still in chains, and there was barely a spark of hope for victory but we kindled that spark anyways, right?" They speak slowly, imbuing each word with meaning. The moon shines softly on their face.

"Yeah." I look at them with wide eyes.

"Right so I was still part of the war effort despite not being part of the war. I helped make medicine to be snuggled to the troops, right? Well, one day I received a strange request.

"I won't tell you what her name was. I don't even know. She was beautiful though. She was unfortunately a slave at the Emperor's palace. It was horrible. One of her jobs, among others, was to buy food for the Emperor's intricate feasts. She could never sneak anything in or out of the castle though, since they checked her very thoroughly once she got back."

Oh. Oh. Oh shit.

"And then what?" My voice betrays my tiredness. But it is also full of curiosity. I want to hear more.

"She came to me in secret. We hid up in the roof of the barn. She told me that she needed the powder from the archenji plant. And a lot of it. You know what that is, right?"

"I might. I'm not good at remembering every herb ever like you are. Isn't it like a poison?"

"It is. And a very powerful poison too. A very small amount of it would be able to kill a person. But it takes a week to act. You could chug litres of concentrated archenji tea and still not feel anything. Until approximately a week after you ingested it. Then you would die. Painfully. There is no known cure. The Empire didn't know about the plant existing. There are a lot of plants they don't know about. Which is poetic and part of the reason I'm drawn to medicine.

"Anyways, she told me her plan. She would come to the village in the morning the day before a great feast day. She would drink as much archenji tea as she could. And then she would go back. And they would detect nothing remiss about her. They would think she smuggled nothing. Then she would begin cooking for the feast, along with the other servants. Except, she would pour her blood into the wine. Not enough that it's detectable but enough that it's there. And she'd mix it into the sauces. And she'd drip it into the gravy. And she'd bake it into the bread. She'd die in a few days. But then so would the Emperor. And all his highest officials. And their families. The elite of the entire Empire would be dead. If things went according to plan."

I'm astonished at her bravery. How. Why? She was willing to risk so much, willing to risk it all, for her people. That was selfless. She signed her own death warrant and she didn't care.

"Issenne?"

"Yes?"

"Did you agree to the plan? I ... I know a lot of people who would disagree with you for letting a young woman die. They believe death is only for the battlefield or for old age."

"Many people believe that the only honourable way of sacrificing your life is on the battlefield. They do not realize that when we are at war, the battlefield is constantly all around us. They do not realize that in these days, life is war. And any time you die for your people, any time you die so that they might see a modicum of victory, you die on the battlefield.

"I haven't told anyone this part of the story. Many would react badly. But I'm telling you because there is a very important lesson in all of this."

"What's the lesson?"

"I promise I'll get to it. Anyways I wasn't on board with her plan at first. It was too risky, I thought. I told her, that nobody had tried anything like this before. We didn't know if it would work or not. We didn't even know when and for how long the poison was stored in the blood. We only knew that there was a chance she could succeed. And no idea how slim or wide that chance was. We only knew that it was definite that she would die. I told her not to.

"But she looked at me. And her eyes were darker than the deepest night. And deeper than the darkest pool of water. And she said, that she might as well be dead anyways. Because to not be free, to be exploited and abused and held under by the Emperor and his cronies, it was worse than death.

She said that the knowledge that she stood up, the knowledge that she rebelled, that in and of itself was worth life. It was worth more than a life lived under chains. Even if she didn't succeed in her assassination attempt she would die trying. And I saw the determination behind her eyes. I saw the rage and desperation behind her voice. And I felt the unwavering love, the incomprehensible bravery, the overwhelming destiny that was within that request. And I told her that I'd get her what I needed.

"I did get the message out to the warriors and the supporters on the warfronts that an assassin would kill the Emperor and his cronies sometime after the festival. I told the messenger that I did not know whether they would succeed but a spy should be sent to see if there was confusion and chaos in the palace.

"I spent the next few months going out into the grassfields and the marshes, deep where nobody could see me. And I gathered dry leaves from all the archenji plants I found. And I crumbled them into powder. I stored it in secret in a hole in the ground under my hut. And I waited until the day of reckoning. I woke up in the middle of the night, long before the day began. I dug out the bag of powder. There was enough to make two meals out of it. I made tea with it, making the tea more and more and more concentrated until it was thicker than whole milk. Have you ever had whole milk?"

"Once."

"I've only had it once as well. But you remember how thick it is, right? How milk from powder doesn't do it justice. Well the tea was thicker than that. And it was blood red. I filled my entire water skin with it. I was almost tempted to taste a bit of it. Just to see how it tasted. But I didn't. Obviously.

"I waited for her to come, at the agreed-upon spot near the tree at the edge of the fields. She came an hour before dawn. And we hugged. She had tears and power in her eyes. I gave her breakfast. And it was a good breakfast. Rice, potatoes, carrots, cabbage leaves, and even an onion and a radish, all boiled together. I gave her a lot. She would be dead soon. I didn't know why I was feeding her so well. But I was. Maybe it was a waste. I don't know. We sat there eating together in the light of pre-dawn. The air was so strange. Like we were in a different world. The dawn was just threading the tips of its electric blue fingers through the black of the night sky when she sat down with my water skin in her hands. She sat leaning back on me and I hugged her, stroking her hair and quietly singing to her. Songs of sadness. Songs of loss. Songs of freedom. Songs of love. Songs of hope. In a few minutes it was over. She stood up, and she walked to the market. And as the sky finally turned its shade of daytime blue, she was long gone. Forever.

"I prayed every spare chance I got that her plan worked.

"And you know the rest."

I do know the rest. It's common knowledge. Some anonymous assassin had taken out the Emperor, the entire government and most major generals. In the chaos and confusion that reigned amongst the Imperial troops, we struck. Our troops overwhelmed them. For months we overwhelmed them. Despite them having superior technology and training. And we gained so much ground. Millions of slaves were able to flee to the warfront. Including Issie. I remember meeting her that night when I was four years old and she was a frightened-eyed girl that looked so big to me.

The war is going better now, than it was all the way in the beginning. It's still not going well. Not at all. A new emperor is on the throne. New generals in the meeting rooms. But it's going better. We took the chance we got and made the most out of it. We have a chance of victory.

That story is horrific. It's horrific but it's still powerful. It's disturbing but ... but there's something about it. That gives me strength and I don't know how. I'm not quite sure how it's supposed to make me feel better though.

"Oh my god," I say.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you though?"

"Not really."

"Okay that's understandable. I was being rather cryptic. You have to remember though, she was a slave in the heart of the Imperial palace during a time when the war was just started. She had nothing. No power. Less power than anyone. She was in the heart of the Empire. She couldn't even dream of escaping. Because if she escaped they would kill her loved ones. She didn't have a huge network of people supporting her work like we do. She didn't have the time that we have to pour into the war effort. She didn't have any power. And yet she still had so much power anyways. She was one slave against the combined forces of the entire Empire's government, their guards, everything. And all she had was spirit, faith, hope, and pure rage. She used what she had anyways. She used what she had and some could say she singlehandedly turned the tide of the war. She didn't, she did get so much help from many people. But still, she had less help than you and I do. She didn't even know if her plan would work. She just had hope and rage and the will to make things better.

"And she did it. She succeeded. Despite the fact that all the odds were against her she succeeded. And guess what? That just means that the odds don't mean anything. Sure it looks like we're not powerful. Sure it seems like we can't do anything of substance. When you compare us to the might of the Empire. But looks are often deceiving. What counts is your spirit. What counts is your rage. Your love. Your will to fight. What counts is the choices you make, and the fact that you want change more than anything. And I've seen you Charlotte. You do. You yearn for it. I long for the day when you can find what true and complete freedom is. But until then know. That you are enough. You are a warrior from your very soul. And you can bring them down. We can bring them down."

"Issenne?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. And ... did you ever tell anyone else? About what happened with that girl?"

"No I didn't. I don't think I ever will. They wouldn't understand."

"Can you tell Anthem? She needs it. Probably more than me."

"Yes Anthem needs to know. We both know how stubborn she is though."

"Where is she anyways?"

"I'm fucked if I know. You know how she has a habit of disappearing. She might not even be in the camp she might have gone off into the fields."

"She'd make a good spy."

“Honestly, she would. It's past bedtime now. Come sleep."

"Give me a few more minutes I need to think."

"Do you feel better?"

"Yeah."