Content Warning: Violence + Warfare
click,
ma’s cooking up a storm today. you can feel it: the rumble of the pots, the pans. her lightning-hands, quick as she slices, she simmers, she sizzles. she adds a dash of cumin, a lump of ginger. some cardamom. some more star anise. afterwards, she’ll plunge a hunk of bread into the gooey mixture & raise it to your lips. you’ll tell her it’s too spicy. you’ll tell her your mouth’s about to burst into flames. she’ll huff, & she’ll puff, but no one’s blowing the house down. not yet, anyway. you’ll eat the curry, & you’ll think, privately, that it tastes like a treasure trove. you’ll go outside, & the sun will decide to paint the streets its favourite shade of gold. you’ll play with the boy down the block, hopscotching back & forth, forth & back. you’ll lie on your backs in the warm sand, & you’ll ask each other question after question after question: which came first, orange the colour or orange the fruit? do doors click as they open or as they close? if you took a bite out of the sky, what would happen? would you breathe out clouds?
click,
they’ll be there, that night: the people who will end up blowing the house down. their faces will be paler than yours, their words sharper. they’ll have guns, too. click, & click, & your family (usually 3/3 alive) will be 2/3 ghost. you haven’t lost your fight quite yet, so this time you’ll scream, & you’ll shout. they’ll put you on the barracks of a silver train, & the air will go cold. everything will go cold. they’ll take you to Upland, a city that’s stuck in perpetual winter, filled to the brim with people who don’t sound like you & don’t look like you, & why are you here, anyway? a snowflake will land on your nose; you’ve never seen one before. they’ll lead you to a building at the end of the street, rickety letters hanging over the top: SCHOOL FOR THOSE DOWN-UNDER. they’ll lead you inside, and there! a room of children that do look like you, but something is going on. something strange. the people that took you here will stand at the front of the room, shoulders straight. they’ll teach you about things called battles, & things called wars. you’ll want to raise your hand. you’ll want to ask them if they can show you the way back home, but something will tell you there isn’t one.
click,
one day, they’ll write something on their creaky blackboard: i will not bite the hand that feeds me. you won’t be sure what that’s supposed to mean, but you’re supposed to write it over & over & over again, until you find out. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. you don’t understand. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. what’s it supposed to mean? i will not bite the hand that feeds me. you’ve been carved away. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. you’ve been hollowed out. i will not bite the hand that feeds me. you’ll close your eyes. you’ll open them. morsels of memory will rise to the surface: warm sand on your skin. the sun, winking at you before nightfall. your mother, kneading dough in a bowl, nodding as she tucks you into bed. you won’t be sure they’re real. you’ll start to think you’ve imagined it all. you’ll start to wonder if the only city that’s real is the one you’re in right now.
click,
there’ll be a time that someone resists. she’ll stand up, & she’ll throw her history books to the ground. she’ll say they’re lying. she’ll say they’re not clicking any doors open. they’re hammering them shut. they’ll take her outside, & you’ll hear the gunshot. you’ll watch as she lies still, as a red rose blooms around her, and you’ll feel as if you should scream, as if you should shout, but you can’t quite remember how. you’ll close your eyes. you’ll feel cold, & empty, but mostly just hungry. you’ll turn away from her, from the rose that keeps on blooming, blooming, in the snow, & you’ll search for something to eat.
click,
you’ll learn complicity. you’ll learn dormance. you’ll learn that a story is just a story, that a sun is just a sun. you’ll learn that the earth isn’t the centre of the universe, but Upland just might be the only real centre of the earth. you’ll join them sometimes, on their quests, on their sieges. you’ll trek with them, through the blizzards, through the snow, & you’ll search for brighter towns, warmer cities. you’ll turn away as they burn them down to the ground. you’ll cover your ears as they blow down more houses, more heaths, more hearts (clickclickclickclickCLICK). you used to just wait for them to stop, but you’ll know better now. your mind won’t stop crumbling. the snow won’t stop falling. the world won’t stop spinning.
click,
they’ll hand you a hunk of bread, & you’ll feel like a circus animal being offered a treat, but that’s okay. you’ll take the safety of the circus tent over the horrors of the wild any day. you’ll lift the bread to your lips, & you’ll try to conjure up some other moment, some other memory. you’ll find that you don’t know how. you’ll find that you don’t really care. instead, you’ll chew. you’ll swallow. you’ll let the dryness fill your mouth, let it sink into your bones. you’ll think, i’ve never eaten bread quite like this before. you’ll think you like the way it tastes.
click.
