no one pays the sun {mutt/naya}

Khiyyi Song

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When I wake to the subtle sound of birds in the early morning, the sights beyond the window pull me into a state of awe and wonder. The trees that provide us with extravagant amounts of oxygen; the grass that grows rapidly beneath our feet; and the faithful sun that rises each day never ask for anything in return.

Sometimes, I feel like I am the sunrise, shedding light onto the world continuously, doing so much more than asked for. Yet, I ask for no payment; in fact, I’m the one paying.

The thought suddenly makes me wonder if the sun has ever made a mistake. Maybe the sun is in debt, just as I am. Maybe regret is buried somewhere beneath those brilliant rays, a speck of darkness within the boundless blankets of light.

For a few moments every morning, I watch the sun as it creeps over the horizon, and I think of who I could’ve been, had I not made the mistakes that have haunted me incessantly these many years. However, it is not morning. The sun is not up. There are no birds chirping outside my window.

It is night, and I have job to fulfill before the sunrise exists once again. I have work to do. I lift myself from my bed hesitantly, rubbing my eyes. Another child sleeps on the bed above me, so I try to make as little noise as possible.

My foster parents accommodate many children, although they own a small house. However, they do it for the money. They need the money just as much as these children need parents; but even with the money they receive for taking care of the children, the cost for providing these children with such necessities, evens out to be a bit more. I slip quietly across the room, opening the door as carefully as possible. The slightest movement—a flash of green eyes—causes me to stop. Seven-year old Arabella sits up from her bed, her head perked in curiosity. “Where are you going, Khiyyi?”

“Ssh,” I whisper. “Just need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” I smile at her, trying to make my words sound a bit more convincing. As I shut the door, I barely catch her last words, directed at myself, but said in a whisper, like a sarcastic comment you’re not supposed to hear.

“Again?”

I escape the house through the front door. The faint feeling of drowsiness that overcomes me tells me I haven’t slept quite enough. I am fatigued, but I push the feeling away.

On average, I usually only get a few hours of sleep, but I’ve adapted. Black circles are prevalent beneath my worn eyes, but I don’t worry much about my appearance: not like some of the other girls in the district.

Once I repay this debt that I’ve buried myself in, maybe I’ll find the time to take care of myself again; but for now, my feelings don’t count.

I shiver, even in the heat of the night. I try to walk a bit faster, but my memories have already caught up to me. It’s no use trying to run from them, because my own recollections are the only things that dictate my life.

At least I am happy: most of the time, at least. It feels good to know that I have completely given myself to the idea of selflessness; it feels good to know that there’s someone out there smiling because of what I’ve done; and most of all, it feels good to pay for the lives I may have ended.

Still, it is definitely a challenge to feel happiness when nearly the only thing I can think about is how much food is in my stomach, or how tired I may be. When my mind is somewhere else, and my own choices and actions are torturing my well-being, it is difficult to think of anything else. In a case such as that one, happiness is scarce.

I keep walking, pulling myself further away from my house. I suddenly wonder what people see when they look at me: do they see the cuts along my wrists? Do they see the hole I have buried myself in, the mess I cannot escape? Do they see another devastated citizen at the edge of starvation? Or do they see a girl who is starving herself?

I immediately remember Bailey, the girl who had been much too earnest to help me. I was perfectly fine at that time, yet she had thought differently.

I am still fine, and will always be. I don’t usually understand people who think otherwise.

I pass the fields, making my way down a few more blocks, until I am immersed in the midst of the town. The town is only ever full during the early morning and the evening, for during the daytime, nearly everyone is at work in the fields. It is always a busy place, but never loud. Usually, people’s whispers are quiet, as they attempt to avoid the wrath of the peacekeepers. There is always an air of tension, just as it is in the fields.

However, during the night, the town is normally quite deserted. Of course, there are those few people, such as me, who also work night jobs. Though, the stores are shut down during the night, for most citizens are safe inside their locked houses, lying on their hard mattresses as they try to ignore the nightly heat.

I spot the factory at which I work, but just as I do, a peacekeeper confronts me. I point to the building, explaining that I am an employee there, and he nods, the scowl upon his face unchanging. The factory before me is in charge of packaging and cleaning the foods harvested from the fields, and preparing them to be transported. Yet, I have never liked the place. It has a foul scent, and most of the workers are thieves or liars. Though, I’ve learned to manage.

With my next step, I trip. The street is barely lit, yet there is nothing I could have tripped over. That’s when I realize: it is my evolving weakness that caused me to hit the ground. The fatigue that continues to spread through my body and the lack of food that I have allowed myself, contribute to this feeling. I try to pick myself up, but I have begun to feel lightheaded, my vision becoming blurry. I hear footsteps in the distance, as others hurry to get to work. For a moment, I panic, afraid I might be late. Finally, I manage to force myself to my feet. Unsteadily, I begin walking again.

Yet, my body requires me to stop, for the spots that cloud my vision are too strong. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/justify][/blockquote]