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The Last Thing



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Wed Jan 25, 2012 9:05 am
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AmeliaCogin says...



Spoiler! :
Hey guys, this is the revised post of my story for my competition.



The last thing

“I am tired of fighting...from where the sun now stands,
I will fight no more.” - Chief Joseph


I won’t die: that is what his eyes tell me. They smoulder within their deep-set sockets; glisten with salty tears. He will not let a single one fall.

He tries to say something, but chokes on his words. I place my finger to his lips. “Try not to talk. It will only make the hurt worse.”

I lift the hem of my cloak and gently wipe his eyes. “Don’t give up, not yet. Promise me.”

He gives me an endearing, sympathetic stare, riddled with agony. Ash closes his eyes to rest.

Lord, how did it come to this? It seems a lifetime since I knew what it felt like to be happy. I still have the memories: memories of Sweet Georgia. Ash and I lived high in the snow-mountains, overlooking The Apalachee: a river of the deepest blue, surrounded by verdant marsh-flowers.

Greedy, disgusting gold-seekers burned our little house and everything in it. Ash tried to defend our home. It was his duty.

A pale soldier, with balding ginger hair and a rotting black smile, shot him in the thigh. He had pressed his foot upon the open, pouring wound. Ash’s cry came sharp and shrill. It lingered in the air, in amongst the heavy cloud of the mountains.

It was a scream so violent that to this day it haunts my dreams.

Taking Ash’s hand, I give it a light squeeze. Remembering is so painful. His fingers curl weakly around mine. Pulling away, I bind my cloak closer to my body, and rest myself down beside him. I lay awake, staring intently at the canopy of the stars above, until I hear Ash’s breathing become slow and gentle. My blood is like ice, frozen within my veins, my limbs numb. I huddle in close to him, just like old times.

My stomach feels flimsy, weightless; as though it is about to crumble into dust. I clutch my gut tightly, my breathing shallow. It is now our third week without food. I keep waiting for a miracle from the Lord; Manna to fall from the heavens. It is in my nature to be optimistic, or, as Ash would say, fanciful. I often find myself caught up in the whirl of a fool’s paradise, but living inside my head is the only way I survive.

I am headstrong and determined, just like my people. As a nation, the Tsalagi are fiercely proud, and are willing to fight for what they believe in. However, we are brave; not stupid. When the Britons raised their guns and began setting light to our homes and villages, the majority of us surrendered; agreed to relocate.

Our journey is a hard one; but we prevail, and do so with dignity. We do not give way to tears; nor do we mourn and wail for our homes so cruelly torn from beneath us. Already our trail is being called Nu na da ul tsun yi: the place where they cry. But it is not our tribe who weep. It is the onlookers who wail: those who stand by the wayside – outsiders, who pity our plight; those who are utterly moved by our stance.

I have been thinking for over an hour now: endless thoughts, just whirling around my mind. Sleep, if it ever comes, is often light; filled with fearful, meaningless dreams. Ash is stirring. He coughs heavily. I prop myself up on one hand and stroke his greasy black hair away from his forehead. It’s burning hot: he’s running a fever. Ash wretches, hacks up vomit laced with swirls of red. My eyes widen in horror.

Frantically, I claw the ground for my water skin. Lifting Ash’s head onto my lap, I push it to his lips, tipping fluid down his throat. He jerks out of my arms, choking wildly, the water spurting from his mouth. I smack him between the shoulder blades: it seems to calm the demon inside of him. He falls back limply into my arms, shivering violently. I wrap his thread-like blanket tighter around his shoulders and, humming a soothing tune, I start to rock gently. I glance at his thigh; the mere sight – let alone the smell – is nauseating. It’s seeping again and the bandages used to bind the wound are damp with puss. The surrounding flesh is black and fetid and very much rotten.

I look back to his face. Ash locks his gaze with mine. His stare stabs me through the middle, causes my heart to lurch inside my ribcage. He clutches my wrist, his icy grasp getting tighter and tighter. I begin to panic; twist it free.

He is devastated and decaying. The beautiful, flawless man I married is a distant memory. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, stirring my stomach. He is fading.

He continues to fight the illness, true to his Cherokee blood. From an early age, we trained our bodies to withstand pain, and were brought up to believe that yielding to despair is cowardly. We were taught to cling on to whatever hope we had and thrive off it and fight in order to survive.

Ash is my last hope.

I remember the day I met him. The sun was blistering, and I had gone down to the river to cool off. Ash had the same idea. He smiled at me, and I at him. The rest is history.

From the day that we met, Ash became my reason: he is why I breathe. He is what motivates me to wake every morning and endure the endless, torturous days of winter.

He defines hope.

But I have only just come to realise this very moment that if I truly love him, I will let him go.

“Ash,” I whisper, my words choked with tears. I let them run freely now. His eyes gleam in the darkness of the night. “You don’t have to fight anymore.”

He frowns.

I shake my head, say: “Don’t suffer, just for me; for your dignity. You can let go.”

Ash swallows, is able only to emanate one, muffled word: “You.”

“No, don’t think about me. I’ve been so selfish, forcing you to keep going, battle the pain and push through: you are in agony every day…and this winter is so harsh. Don’t try to keep living, not for me…I -” my voice breaks, and all the words upon my tongue dissolve. I bend low and kiss Ash’s dry, cracked lips.

He has no strength to respond. His neck relaxes, and his eyes close. He breathes in short, sharp gasps, sucking air into his lungs. Carefully, I lay his head back down onto the ground. I lie down beside him, but do not wait for sleep. I wait for Ash’s heart to become still; to stop to a silence. I savour every second that follows until his lungs aspirate for the final time. I am prepared. I reach into my woollen bag, and pull out his funeral clothes. They bear no pattern; are sombre and dark in design. They were carefully crafted by his mother when he was a child, as were mine by my own aluli, my mother. Her home was also burned, but she did not get out alive.

I dress my beloved Ash in a pair of leggings, a shroud and a sash. Pulling a blanket over his face, I leave his body to the elements.

I reach a blunt, dull-handled knife from my bag, and begin to cut my hair. Thick glossy locks – darker than the blackest Onyx – fall from my head, encircle my shrivelled form. Some watch me as I do so, realise, and bow their heads respectfully. I remove my cloak, and lay it over my husband, then strip myself of my outer layers and my moccasins, leaving me standing with only a simple dress of cotton. Already my blood has slowed; seized within my veins to an icy halt.

Slipping on a shroud of black wool, a gauzy sash of the same colour, and thick, dusky blue leggings, I recline out on my back. I feel strangely calm as I take one last long look at the diamond-freckled sky above me. I feel ready. Slowly and painfully, the cold stabs into my flesh, prick by prick until I cannot feel. Finally, it reaches my heart.

Hope is like a barricade. It fortifies the heart; puts up a sterling defence.

But it is not invincible.

It does not rule us. We all have a choice. Each of us, at some point in our lives, will ask: should I stay? Should I keep hold of my hope?

And sometimes, the noblest thing to say is no.
  








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