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Diamond Chest

Exhaling for Freedom

By H KaePublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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"Diamond Chest" [Hala Numan, 2018]

It’s 83 degrees right now. Whenever the sun reaches over the edge of the horizon, I collapse a little bit more into my pillow. My cigarettes are never in arm’s length of my bed. So I actually have to scrawl my way to find them underneath the frame and then I’m ready to unambiguously alert my cat that I’m awake. She knows. She always knows when it’s time to eat. Her life is simple. It’s filled with flies that she easily swats and fake mice she takes hostage.

The cigarettes haven’t aged me much. But sometimes in the early morning, my bags are saddled with sodium. There’s not much in this part of town except canned beans and dirty bath water.

Living the American dream right?

My cigarette boxes are all smashed. My cat is usually keeping them company in a pile next to my mask and my gun. I’m on my last one now. I have had a hard time breathing lately and it’s not because of how much I inhale cigarette smoke. It’s much more sinister than that.

I make my way down to the meeting.

“Nora!” I hear my name being called.

The smoke clears and I see my brother waving me down. Something must be wrong. He never waves me down. He never waves. He’s too thick-necked, filled to the brim with unhappiness.

This junkyard is too clean. There’s barely anything except a few tires we used to burn every now and again. The warehouse is overflowing tonight. I’m anxious thinking when about starting.

Before I got up on the bummed platform, I noticed the step stool. Wobbly and wishing to give out at the next syllable. Shaky like this movement. I stood up and every voice became a silent murmur. I held on tightly the heart-shaped locket settled in my collarbone.

“I don’t understand. what are we supposed to do? I see the splayed dead bodies. But the screen is a magic hole. It’s experiential. I feel but I do not know. I wonder at all times, why does war happen? Isn’t war the last resort? Have we become so blind that we dismount the mountain of victors in order to become the recently mourned. We are killing ourselves. There is no difference between your life and the life of the purported enemy. We are all inching toward the same breath of freedom. We are all dying to live. Except some are leading the most simple of lives — dying to die. And with their deaths, comes another complaint, like this one. Another voice murmuring in the distant clouds. Disapproval. Disappointment.

One question still pats me. What are we supposed to do? Do we stand around and watch the world burn around us? Do we withstand this torment? Do we risk our lives? Do we give our fortunes being made? Do we speak out? Do we organize? These are forces seeking a higher chain of command. The highest. So we stand only to sit. We sit only to lie. We lie to fall into the deepest of slumbers. Because after all the dust of cities destroyed settles, we will be covered in shame. And gratitude. And we must lie with that human injustice. The recurring paradox that there wasn’t anything we could do at all. Except speak life into our sadness. And with that we can only hope that there will be a shift of consciousness. A greater consciousness of gratitude. And so we give thanks.

Thank you.”

I blossomed on the stage that day. I blossomed to the sounds of exhale. Finally, someone said it. We can’t go on like this. Something has to change.

Short Story
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About the Creator

H Kae

storyteller. student of life. always wondering. never wandering.

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