The Loss of a Heart-Shaped Locket

It’s here, it has been here for a while now, the clash of races. A war to end all wars. We knew it was coming, we could sense it. The tension as you walked out your front door, the looks you got, the atmosphere, so thick with rage and fear you could cut it with a knife. Why didn’t we say something sooner? Why didn’t we do more? Surely anything would have been better than ending up where we are now, but I guess it's too late for all of that.

I hold the heart shaped locket in my hand, with a picture of my baby brother on one side and my mom on the other. I steal a final glimpse of their faces, my heart aching with longing, knowing I will never see either of them again. She found out she was pregnant as the world started to collapse around us. My father had left the month before to fight in the rebellion and never came back. My mother never admitted it, we never actually talked about it, but we knew he was dead, or well on his way to it. This war between the races has destroyed our country, our world. With each piece of history that was deleted, each lie that no one spoke out against, each degree that our society moved from tolerance and acceptance to hate and division, we did nothing. By the time we decided to stand up to it all, to try and bring unity back to our country, it was too late. Like a frog in boiling water, our country allowed itself to be boiled alive, one degree at a time, as each piece of the apocalyptic puzzle fell into place. I remember the day my brother died; you could feel the somberness in my home. He had cried out in hunger for days, but my mom was not able to nurse him, and he would not take any other food. Then I woke up one morning, because the crying had stopped. I got out of bed and crossed the floor into the kitchen with a smile on my face, thinking she finally found something for him to eat. Instead, I saw my mother, sitting in her bed, holding this tiny baby with lifeless eyes and I knew it was the end of his little life. That he had given up and his body was done. So, she sat, holding him in her arms, stroking his bald head, singing to him, and telling him she loved him, so that he knew when he passed that this did not happen because he was not wanted or loved. After he died, she sat there for an entire day. I did not know what to do, or understand what would happen next, but when I woke up the next morning, my brother was gone, our bags were packed and my mom told me we were leaving, that this was not home anymore. That is when she gave me this locket. She slid it around my neck, telling me it was something my dad had given her when they first got married. It was our most important possession, she had said, “Don’t ever take this off, one day it may be the only thing that saves us.”

I close it gently, as I tuck the locket inside my undershirt, knowing if anyone sees it, they will rip it right off my body, killing me to get at the precious metal around my neck. I wrap the cloth around my breasts, trying to flatten them as much as possible before throwing on a baggy t-shirt. No one can know I am a woman; I have seen what they do to women like me and would rather die than let that happen to me. My hair is cut short, I shave it whenever I can, mostly for appearance, but it helps with lice. I put my hat on, one that says, “Just do it.” I think it used to be a brand slogan, but anytime I really try to think about details like this, things get murky in my head. I look at my reflection in a broken off piece of mirror I have propped up against the wall, sitting on the old wooden pallet I am currently using as my bed. I have to make sure my skin looks dark enough before I head outside. In today’s world, the lighter your skin, the more likely you are to die.

Hoisting an old backpack onto my shoulders, and sliding my knife into my belt loop, I start my trek upstairs. Today, I am going to find food. I make my way up from the basement of this dilapidated old building, half surprised it has not toppled in on me in the week that I have been here. “Survivors keep moving Breia,” those were my mothers last words to me, before I watched them take her away; I have not stopped moving since. As I reach the back door, I stop and listen, barely breathing, wanting to make sure that no one is on the other side of this door. It would not matter if it were a soldier, or a stranger, right now everyone is an enemy. Hearing nothing, I gently push on the door, opening it ever so slightly, so I can carefully peek outside and take in my surroundings. The putrid air from the death of so many people comes rushing into my nostrils. There is so much death right now, so much hate. Some people just give up entirely, lying down right where they are, choosing to forfeit their lives, along with any hope they may have had for a better tomorrow. Death, something that used to be so far off, saved for the sick and elderly, something that reaches too many people today. It seems like the coast is clear, so I slip through the crack in the door, making as little noise as possible, quickly shifting from foot to foot as I make my way to the forest, where I can easily find cover in the trees and underbrush. Anything is better than being exposed just walking down the street.

As I walk through the forest, I retrace my steps from the days before, moving from one trap to the next to see if I have managed to catch anything. Having caught one squirrel, I tie it to my pack and make my way to the final trap. I hear a twig snap behind me and immediately duck behind the stump of a tree, my heart pounding in my chest. I close my eyes, only for a moment and try to slow my breathing, to control the thoughts racing through my mind, after all it could just be an animal. I open my eyes as I pull the knife from my belt and slowly, cautiously start to turn my head from left to right, listening ever so carefully in the silence that has ensued since that first noise. It is not an animal, I can feel it, the consciousness of another reaching out to me here in these woods, telling me it wants to be found. I have not seen anyone yet, so I slowly step out from behind the tree, staying as low to the ground as I can, ready to pounce and attack as soon as I might need to. But what I see standing in front of me is not what I expected, it is a child. Maybe a little girl of about six or seven, although I could be way off. Lack of food made everyone smaller than they really should be, but not younger. Starvation made you older, even infants, babies who had no business knowing what hunger felt like, looked like old men and women trapped in tiny bodies, their souls knowing they only came to this earth to die. Her big brown eyes look up at me and I could instantly see the desperation in them, scared of me, but hopeful that I will not hurt her. She is taking a chance, too many people would kill her, or worse and it surprised me to see a child out here on her own.

I hold my hands up, sliding my knife back into my belt, trying to show her I mean her no harm. It does not look like she is cared for, making me a little less wary of her and how she found me, but only slightly. I drop my pack to the ground and offer her some of the dandelion root I had foraged this morning while walking between traps. I gently toss one to her, it lands in between her feet, and she looks at it quizzically, looking back up at me wondering what to do next. I take a piece and, shaking off the dirt, start to chew on the roots motioning for her to do the same. As she slowly bends down to pick up her own piece, she chews the entire thing so quickly that before I know it, there is nothing left. I reach into my pack, pulling out another root, this time she walks up to me, taking it from my hand and just like the first, it is gone, as though it vanishes before my eyes. “Slowly,” I say, patting my tummy, to show she could get sick. Remembering I have not checked my last trap yet, I turn ever so slightly to see if there was anything caught that I could share with this little girl. This was her moment, she was so quiet I didn’t hear a thing. Looking down at my shoes, I see the stain of red spill along the ground and then, suddenly, I am looking up at the sky and I see the beauty of this world that has been hidden from me for so long. As I enjoy feeling the sunshine on my face, I feel little hands searching my body, pulling the knife from my belt. Not even dead yet and she is already looting my body of it’s valuables. I should not have let my guard down, no matter how unthreatening she seemed, I knew better and now this would cost me my life. I knew I was dying. I could feel her hands around my neck, she finds the chain and grabs it, it takes all I have to grasp at her hands, “please,” I say desperately, “let me die with them close.” I cannot say that last part out loud. She shakes my grip, yanks the chain hard and I feel it give. I can see she already has my pack on her back, as I listen to the fading sound of her feet running away from me, back to wherever she came from. The irony of having survived so much for so long, just to die at the hands of a child I was stupid enough to show empathy for mocks me as I lay here dying. A single tear escapes my eye, sliding down my cheek. All I can do now is hope, hope there is a life after death, hope that the next life will hold more love and light than this one, hope that my family will recognize me as I stumble my way into whatever existence awaits me, hope that my mother will forgive me for losing the one thing she wished would save me, the heart shaped locket.