^Isabis D11^ [FIN]

I wanna die in the winter.

The sun likes to beat me. Its hard rays smack me as we shovel through the shit, eliciting hot beads of sweat. But in the winter --- well in the winter the sun is more like a gentle caress. I wanna die without the harsh glare of the sun. I wanna die when my head isn't spinning from heat, and when my lone shirt isn't soaked with smelly sweat. I want to die in the winter.

Mama danced with me, her long hair scraped on the brittle floor of the treehouse. When I was young she grabbed my small hands in her large calloused ones, and we waltz quietly around the house as she sang the same lullaby her mother used to sing to her. Our hickory skin matched perfectly, creating one being that could dance into eternal joy. We were loners together. Her husband, my papa, was long gone when she realized she was pregnant with the twins, and my brother, her son, was busy getting into trouble with his friends.

He needs to learn. My mama was perfectly clear about her views of Cayman being whipped after his mistakes. She wanted them to save her son, shake him until he recognized the path he was going down, do something she couldn't. I saw it in her bright eyes, those moments when he was lashed over and over again, those dangerous thoughts that a mama should never think. That perhaps it was best he go away, never to burden her family again. But Kujo and Amara were 6, and I was 11, and we were living off the wages Cayman made when he chose to work, so we picked him off the filthy ground and cleansed his wounds.

As soon as Cayman turned 18, he signed up to be taken far away. He had made his choices, he had picked a life in the capitol. Why did they accepted a peasant like him? I did not know. Why did he never send back his wages? I didn't care. But I did know, and I did care that Amara's cheeks were hollowing, and that Kujo's eyes were dimming, and that Mama's hair was greying. Mama and I worked long hours under the warden that was the sun, his unfaltering stare causing drips of exhaustion to run down our backs. Our skin turned even darker, and our bones even more prominent. The wages just weren't enough, and so when we trekked back to the treehouse, our hands holding meager amounts of food, we felt the shame of being unable to provide for our loved ones.

Mama stole first. It was a simple beet, small and filthy, that she quickly shoved into her pocket. She carried it with great pain, aware that she was betraying everything she believed. But her children were worth the damnation. We carefully split it three ways, before Mama gave her share to Kujo. Then we never spoke of it again. I made sure my large brown eyes never reflected the slightest hint of disdain I felt towards her actions. 

She died in the winter. Just like I hope to go. We were expecting it. She had refused to eat for days. My lanky frame was wrapped around hers when I woke up that day in January. We spent half the morning trying to wake her up, shaking her head and trying to get sips of water down her throat. But it was futile, grasping at shit covered straws. We had to let her go. We buried her behind our treehouse, as far as our bones could drag her. We made a small little headstone, used a rusty nail to write Here lies Mama and put a single small dandelion on her grave. I wanted to put more, but the twins were hungry.

Kujo and Amara were 11, I was 16, and we were alone. Cayman had still yet to send back any wages, and Kujo and Amara were not yet allowed to work. They had the same brown eyes as me, large and pleading. My hair had turned into a frizzy mess, no longer the dark curtain I dreamed of. Malnourishment was the goliath, I was the David. I was the lanky, unstable, starved David, and starvation was my enemy. It crossed my mind that I could sell myself, soul be damned, and get enough for the twins. But not even the filthy men who searched the streets would glance at the smelly girl who called for attention. It was hopeless, once again I was grasping for shit covered straws.

Amara died yesterday. Her small hand clutched in mine. She was a quiet girl, just like me. She never once complained of the stomach that must have felt like barbed wire. I sobbed useless tears to bring her back. Kujo watched with eyes glazed over. We buried her next to Mama. Then I grabbed a rock and carved her name onto it. I prepared my own as well, so when I pass Kujo wont have to do any heavy lifting. I think I'll be okay, though. At least for a little while, because two mouths aren't as bad as three. Maybe tomorrow our cheeks will be a little bit fatter, our hair a little bit darker, and our hopes a little more higher.

Maybe it's all just wishful thinking.