The Thorns I Swallowed

TW: death and violence

She could feel all the memories flood back into her mind as her feet trudged along the grass-stained sidewalk. She remembered that mural that was painted on the side of a vast brick wall, displaying hands of all different colors holding hands in an amiable embrace. "We Are Stronger Together", it read in bold, impactful lettering. Unity seemed so easy, so simple. She remembered strolls through the neighborhood when she grasped her mother's warm, loving hands, pointing her tiny finger to get her attention. 

The glass doors of the local market, neon lights now dead and gray, bell waiting for its voice to be heard once more, made her recall these trips, like wiping away steam from a mirror. The familiar wind that combed through her hair and the perfect blue sky, complimented by a scattered population of clouds, it almost felt like her childhood was returning for a reunion, like it was only an old friend. 

Her eyes surveyed her surroundings, searching for any kind of movement. A break in the stillness. She was nearing the corner, and she could feel her lungs throbbing with anxiousness. Her hands quivering with anticipation. 

And she saw her. She was barely recognizable. She could feel the wind rolling through the cave of her mouth as she gulped, festering inside of her, and crinkling into a clumped ball of sorry and grief. Pacing back and forth in the middle of a barren and deserted road, like a shivering stalk of wheat abandoned on a field, was her. She saw the woman with crumpled, fibrous hair, eyes with its soul hollowed out, and a pale face fading from dehumanization and the loss of her own emotional capacity. Her skin was the texture of the paper mache animals and bowls they used to plaster together. She could see the disease's vines spiraling around her limbs, pulsing, flashing a strange, luminescent energy that kept her alive but dead. Some parts of the thick, earthy stems even pierced straight through her skin and came out on the other side, like the needle she used to sew up her torn-up hat that easily ripped at the seams. She didn't bleed. It was as if she were a doll, stuffed with clumps of fluffy, polyester filling. 

But her hands. Oh, her hands. They were those hands that used to comfort her in the darkness, stroking her silky hair when her tears had threatened to blush her eyelids. They were the hands that braided her old doll's hair, plastic strands twisting between her meticulous fingers. They were the hands that held hers like a promise, like a gift she wanted to cherish and love forever. Those same hands had now been squeezed the life out of, and were on the brink of clenching in perhaps fear or lack of hope. It felt like her memory was laughing at her, taunting her, calling her foolish for believing that she could ever relive those moments again. 

Was this all that was left of the woman with whom she shared her blood and skin? Was this all that was left of the woman who used to make her feel like she was always home, always the right fish in the right pond? She wanted to run up to her and cry into her shoulder. She wanted to fill the pool, where she learned to use her own limbs to propel herself, with these tears. She wanted to wrap her arms around her like lengths of scotch tape, and share her warmth like the heater they used to thaw their frozen feet in the frigid winter, wiggling sock-dressed toes. She wanted to clutch her hands, interlocking fingers like the chain-link fence they watched a mother deer leap over behind their house. 

But she knew the disease had pulled her into its net, and like every other plant-infested person she saw, she knew the thorn-covered vines would spew out of her mouth and consume her too. They would both be bound to the same pole, wandering the Earth in shadow, even with the protection of light. 

Her hands trembled as they lifted them up in slight hesitation. How could something so easy be so difficult at the same time? Once she did this, it could not be undone. In this world, nothing could be undone. And with the simple pull of her finger, the surrounding buildings seemed to suddenly echo every sound, and the sky seemed to be listening to word, as a resounding

click

reverberated through the waves of the atmosphere. The arrow was released. 

It cut through the air. It cut through the Dutch braids twisted in long afternoons filled with bliss and sweetness. It cut through the elastic strings of friendship bracelets, scattering carefully placed beads, pieces of a puzzle that put together promises and trust. It cut through the guitar strings that warbled soft tunes, composed in love and empathy. It cut through the tapestry she spent her life weaving, stitching together every memory, every moment that mattered, every word that breathed meaning into her life. All the fibers that once flowed like a narrow creek were sliced and severed, curling at the edges. 

And lastly, it cut through a barrier this world had given her, a bubble that cut off the infected people from all others. A shield, separating the mourning from the lost. And that's when the arrow pierced through her sister's skull as she collapsed to the ground like a ball of crumpled paper. 

Erica vowed not to shed a tear for her sister, because her sister's blood did not spill for her, so she must not spill her own tears for her sister. She twitched for a split second, before turning on her heel and leaving her behind.