Zenobia Armstrong :: D10

Everything in life abides by a cycle if you watch closely. Like the cattle we raise, we are birthed fulfilling a role. A role that won’t be escaped until our cycle is complete. It doesn’t matter who is the butcher, for the blade is all the same; our cycles are the same. I aim to hope as my father’s apprentice that my blade can be swift and gentle, unlike the capitols. As an Armstrong, you’re taught to work efficiently, but there is no harm in enjoying the peaceful moments in between. I always enjoyed leaning back and feeling the wind breathe against the sweat on my neck. It feels like a tentative invitation to close your eyes and savor your efforts. Lay on back in the plane around if you choose, feel the ground pull you near like a weighted blanket. As a child, this feeling felt like a sinful dessert to me; for my consumption only, and one I do not have to share with my family at night. Some may say being on the outskirts can feel so dull, at least that’s what the kids at my school complained. I never understood ‘em, so I kept my distance. My parents never made me feel isolated, even though some would argue I was. I played with the calves and chickens far more than I did with other kids. At least, that was before Merona moved in. Thinking of life before Merona feels as blurred as falling asleep outside during a bright summer afternoon. You’ll wake up hours later, confused, and not recalling doing so, but you aren’t mad at it happening either. That’s how my time with Merona felt until it no longer did.

Now when I think of my time with the Appleby’s and of our youth shared, I feel conflicted. Some may say getting whacked in the temple with a tire iron by your best friend’s drunken failure of a father is as clean-cut and simple as you can get. My ear looked like a fucking cauliflower bundle was taped to the side of my bruised face for a few weeks even. Whenever my schoolmates or teachers tried talking to me, it’s like they didn’t know what the hell to gawk at first. There was the black eye, my split cheekbone and bottom lip, the second forming head of an ear, and my leg looked like a poorly roasted turkey thigh. Against my tan skin, my thigh appeared as if someone let it sit on the griddle for too long before rotating it. I thought gettin’ bangs would be a good idea and would distract from my clusterfuck of a physical state but all it did was brought out the arch of my nose, it’s bulbous end, and my depressed amber eyes. Remember this, whoever says gettin’ bangs is a good idea is fucking lying. Do not, I repeat, do not trust anyone who suggests it; they ain’t your friend. Another thing I must suggest? Learn to let go when needed.

Letting go isn’t a skill you can learn overnight, but it was one I was forced to. It is one that takes patience, accomplished through trial and error. At seventeen, I still have a lot to learn, but this I learned the hard way. Sometimes when you love someone, the saying is true: red flags when wearing rose-colored glasses just look like flags in the wind. Her hair and persona were like sweet potatoes, with steps hollowed like a heron. The first day we met, Merona had snuck up behind me to greet me. I hid clumsily behind the tree lining, like a thief reminiscing at the scene of the crime. My crime was petty theft of a knife, but in case you’re worried like my daddy is probably reading this, I hid ‘em for him to find. It was my little way of getting him to take a break, something foreign to him and later I. It was cheap humor watching my dad circle the farm three times over in the sweltering heat of the southern sun; frankly, it reminded me of a chicken with its head cut off. He’d rotate to the back of the barn first, always as if on cue. After a quick of scan the perimeter, Brahan Armstrong would rummage our shared lightly swayed dark chocolate locks for answers, as if a poor attempt to shake me telepathically down for clues. He’d then swivel around the opposite to start anew. Just as clockwork as this familial routine, so would be of Merona and I spending time. Years flew by and we flourished together, but something went awry at twelve.

Maybe it was the pressure of being reaped, maybe it was of Barrett Appleby’s death leaving only Merona with Claude, maybe it was when they sold all their livestock to us Armstrongs, but Merona withered away and rotted. Our aureate friendship had rotted. Although I may be a farmer, I never said I could keep plants alive. I did what I could to pluck the weeds as they sprouted and watered when I could. I listened, offered food after she started throwing up the burnt tessera loaves her dad cooked, and stayed even the nights when she’d scream and throw empty bowls at me that I had filled moments earlier. I knew it wasn’t personal, so I tried not to take it as such. Like an alley cat, she started filtering through only whenever I could provide for her. A chilled autumnal evening spent drinking salty livered stew at thirteen would be the last fond memory I had with Merona Appleby. We sat on crunchy wry grass and talked as if times passed. Maybe it was the nostalgia that made us drunk to our surroundings, but like all daydreams, every fantasy ends.

Ours did when Claude Appleby careened through the woods. The gangly paled man towered over us with cheap moonshine slurring off his tongue, blotchy irate patches creeping up his neck like ivy, with cheeks flushed from alcohol. Lunging forward, he grabbed the collar of my olive tank and yanked me forward, causing me to stumble. With a guttural tremor that only a man could muster, he uttered “listen to this once you brat. Stay away from my daughter.” A forceful shove landed me onto my forearms, catching me from behind, scrapping in protest against the dirt. “How dare you pompous Armstrongs think you can take better care of my own daughter than I. I know what’s best, you hear that?” From the side of my eyes, Merona’s mouth opened and closed but no words escaped from her throat. Claude glared hard at his startled daughter, then as quickly as he arrived he wordlessly stumbled away. Against the moonlight, tears beaded her waterline. It took a minute before she let out a shaky breath held in and crawled over. My jaw tightened in frustration, but I tried not to worry her. Like a baby calf teetering to its feet for the first time, Merona’s hand slid around my jaw hesitantly. The softened pad of her thumb soothed my anxiety away. Her lips shyly grazed against mine chapped, gingered hair cascading down as if to protect me. With a whimper hardly audible, I heard the last words she’d say to me; “I can’t do this anymore.”

Now, you may be wondering how this leads to me looking like a patchwork doll. That fateful day was several months later. As we met in summer, funnily enough that would be where our story ends. The steers of this past year had grown large enough and it was branding day. Momma Guernsey had left for the market earlier to sell what she could and grab ingredients for dinner. It was getting late, the last of the pack was to be done. My dad held the iron rod steadily in the furnace while I made sure the knots were tight. The steer had flailed initially but resigned to his fate as I straddled its torso. The best feeling after a hard day’s work is the breeze lapping against your salted skin. I enjoyed it wafting through my hair as a kid so much that my momma called me her tanned dandelion. Now that I’m older, I wear it up to focus but still get to feel the wind swishing my ponytail. Every movement of my blade requires precision, so I can’t be distracted. Sometimes I tie braids in the mixture, but it’s not like it impresses the carcasses beneath my hands. I closed my eyes, tilting my head to the sky to savor my favorite dessert once more. Father’s footsteps crept up behind, so I knew this couldn’t last any longer. I slowly opened my eyes, turning to greet my weathered brawned dad. The only thing I greeted was two licks of metal to my eardrum and eye.

I can’t recall much of those moments to follow immediately after. My ears sang a buzz unbeknownst to me while flares of pain shot off in my right eye. I slumped over onto my left side while the steer, now free, wriggled in between my legs. As my eyes opened a clang of metal from a dropped tire iron against concrete shifted my gaze to what would be the back of my assailant. He was entangled against my father, whose back was against his workbench. His flat nearly translucent skin, prickled hair, and willowed proportions instantly gave him away; it was Claude Appleby. As I pushed my right hand into the dirt and pivoted my knees to get up, I saw the bow legged, awkward boney legs of the girl I once knew to my left. Merona’s eyes darted; she shook gently and mirrored the image of the night we met last. “Take what you can and deal with the girl if you need to,” Claude shouted. I met her frightened celery eyes that tinged with what I thought was regret. Neither of us moved once I was on my feet initially, but I was the first to dash away. Claude’s forearm was pressed to my father’s throat with my dad’s arm held against the railing too. Although my daddy has always been a force of a man, my mom and he had me older in life. I didn’t want to take any chances, so I immediately went on offense and started assaulting Claude from behind the best a fourteen-year-old girl standing at 5’7ft could. My eyes flung to the tire iron, forgotten on the floor out of desperation. Merona pleaded for everyone to stop, but once she saw my objective for what it was, she finally snapped.

With an urgency I’ve never seen of her before, she dashed to the furnace near me. My hands wrapped around the cool metal, and I swung, connecting to Claude’s ribs. Claude spat from the impact, but before I could swing again, I heard a roar from behind and soon felt my thigh ignite. A shocked gasp escaped my throat as the iron slipped from my hands. I slid backward, the heated rod slicing further before it lost contact with me. My back and arm connected partially with a table behind used for storage, yet I mostly fell in the hallway that connected to the front of the house. Everything paused then. No sounds were heard aside from the clang of the branding rod, or of Merona demanding her father to leave. My dad had shoved the distracted man off finally and went to my side, scooping me up in his arms. My head bobbled unsteadily, yet from this I was able to see Claude and Merona Appleby fleeing the scene. Momma fortunately arrived soon and my daddy had shoved me onto the back of our horse-drawn wagon, directing and ushering her to take me to our family friends down the road who dealt with these kinds of problems. It was a shitty night, sure. As my body bumped in rhythm to the rocks on the dirt road, I couldn’t help but smile while gazing at the stars above. How lucky of me to have dessert twice that night.

Three years have passed since then and as my bruises faded and my scars solidified, the ordeal all became but a softened memory. As life was before Merona, I found myself sinking back into old habits of avoidance. Could you blame me when all people wanted to talk to you about was how you got your ass beat by a duo of weedy pasty fucks who disappeared afterward? Cause I sure don’t. I do blame myself partially, though. Sometimes I think if I had put myself first at some point and distanced myself sooner, this wouldn’t have happened. At the same time, you can yearn all you desire but the past won’t change. Our cycles won’t change. People may come and go, but at the end of the day life remains the same. My name is Zenobia Armstrong. I’m just a girl who was meant to kill cattle. Nothing more, and nothing less. The only thing I can control is my blade and tongue, but for now I’m okay with that.