riya shai | twelve | fin

Riya Shai
eighteen | female | district twelve

I wouldn't have to ask so many questions, if somebody showed me the right way in the first place.

A misguided life on not knowing if I am going in the right way or wrong. Every piece I create, I always turn to the neighbouring critic for any amendments. It is hard sailing this sea without a crew, there is no way I could go on a solo expedition of this world. I am forever in debt to my mother, my one true guide of this course. Always there to turn my head the right way and fill my hands with the right ingredients. My source of instruction. But life says I must wean from her if I am to survive any longer through this journey. Really, there is no independence to my name.

Mother and I have our routine. Just as the sun rises and the miners set underground, we are there to greet them, ever thankful for the sweat they break. Gifts sometimes fill our baskets, flowers to remind them of the world blossoming above them and breads to fill their stomachs for the day. It is all we can offer to show our gratitude, especially after father’s accident. Their courage kept him alive, even if he is secluded to his bed. When the sun sets, and the miners rise, we are there again, more smiles to welcome them back, a basket from the general store ready to guide my brothers back home. It is a routine that I have dared to do solo before, the consistency has made me a master, but I am always fighting to reluctancy to step out alone.

Mother always does my hair in the morning. The boys constantly fight the comb, but she could sit me in front of a mirror and brush it for hours. It is our time to talk, to share every trouble that is festering inside of us. Sometimes it is hard to tell us apart in the only mirror in the house, even if only half of her head can be seen in its small frame. Brown eyes that contrast perfectly and lips that are so synchronised. She says my soft brown hair used to be like, the same length too, to my thighs.

I can see the beauty in her smile but not mine. Chalk has been our substitute for dental hygiene, our neighbours use coal and I am so thankful that idea was not brought into this house. The gaps in my front teeth could be filled with more teeth and the grey shade of my canines are a force undefeated. No way can I smile if that is what I must reveal. Even with a closed smile, the dimples in my cheeks are so clear for all to see.

All I can do is follow mother’s movements. Like any animal, I imitate her actions of survival, carrying them on into my future. Her natural habits of picking up the fallen and mending their wounds. She really does give the best hugs and advice when a road blockage has been hit. I try my best to string together words like her, even the tone of her voice is enough to give comfort. I practice these traits on my younger brother. It is either sadness of frustration in his eyes that catch my interest, drawing me in to wrap my arms around him and soak up the tears. I just don’t have the courage to get out there and practice this on others, not without the company of mother anyway.

My voice is never caught when I venture out as a solo artist. The horror of shyness is prepared with sealing my lips together and setting the streams of sweat down my brow. How it is so easy to converse while in the company of people I know but with strangers it is impossible. Even if I meet a conversation starter, I am quick at closing it off. It is probably why I can only count my true friends on one hand, ones that have stuck with me since infancy and battled through the adolescence years. There really is no hope for me finding anyone in the future.

I help mother run the general store, ensuring all the shelves are neatly stocked and the floors are brushed away from the soot brought in by customers shoes. I am not near ready enough to work the till, there is a script to follow but mother always improvises with that smile of hers. Most of the time I am work behind the store in the kitchen, kneading the dough for the bread that so many return for. Before we used to source it from the bakery over the street, but it is so much cheaper, of course it caused a conflict, but mother settled it over an evening meal. How easy it is for her to use words to soothe any situation.

Everything in my life had its own place and routine, my parents and three brothers. All of it as unpredictable as the other, just as I enjoy it, until the most unexpected thing came just a couple of months ago. A knock on the door and the sight of my father laid out on the road in front of our house. His colleagues had carried him from the pit all the way to our house, the doctor called and prescribed him with months of bed rest. His brain had been rattled in his head and his back damaged from a fall from the bucket that lowers the miners underground. Just a couple of feet any higher and it would be unlikely that he would still be here. Occasionally he is able to move about the house assisted but the pain is to unbearable for him, I am his carer now, with the help of mother we juggle his care and the store.

Even after being knocked out of my routine, everything is slowly setting itself into its own place. I get up in the morning and feed my father breakfast before I even have my own. We continue our thanking of the miners and kneading of the dough. It will be weird when father recovers, and the routine turns around to the past.

I should have sight on a future of my own, but my mind has settled being my mother’s shadow and I can’t see any light that will lead to my escape.