Shadows

I walk to the end of the side street and peer through the largest crack in the concrete partition. A piece of rebar protrudes from halfway up the wall and into the space where I stand; I cannot get closer without risking impaling myself. From my tiny window, I see two children chattering as they sit outside at a table covered in white paper and acrylic paints. A girl, about twelve, makes broad strokes with a brush while a younger boy writes something in the corner. He lacks the motor skills to hold the marker correctly, and his scrunched-up face shows intense focus with every line. I smile and wish I could see what they are painting. Maybe I could give them tips on color theory and creating depth, or learn about their lives and what it’s like to be free. Behind them, branches of an olive tree sway, and a woman laughs somewhere out of my view, telling them to come inside for dinner. The smell of chilis and garlic hits my nose, and my stomach growls. My pails are still empty and there can be no bread without water, so I begrudgingly drag myself away. The hem of my shirt catches on the rebar, and a long tear forms. My uncle brought it from New York four years ago when he came to visit, and I have mended it so many times that it no longer resembles the garment he cheerfully gifted me. I decide I do not care about the new hole. I am tired of mending things. 

The afternoon sun bakes my back as I move from the shade and make my way down the street. I am careful not to consider for too long the stains that mark the ground and the scent of death that no wind has been strong enough to carry away. A hundred meters in front of me, my neighbor Mari pulls her wagon, buckets rattling as it rolls over the dusty and uneven road. She reaches the last control point before the river, and I watch as three soldiers kick her wagon and spit in her direction. A fourth stands back and looks at the ground as Mari frantically scurries to pick up her buckets. They do not beat her today, and I am relieved because she is pregnant. Every woman on our crowded block except one has miscarried, whether from a kick to the stomach by a cruel patrolman, or lack of food and clean water. Mari has had four miscarriages, and the last one nearly killed her. She makes it past the men, and now it is my turn. I approach and they turn to face me, sizing up their target. 

“Well…What do we have here? You thirsty, little lady?” the tallest man in the group says, slurring a little as he approaches me. He has a cleft palate surgery scar above his lip and is probably around thirty years old, but like the hate he harbors, his receding hairline ages him. 

“No, just taking my buckets for a walk.” As usual, I cannot help myself. The other two laugh at my impudence, and the one in the back curls one side of his lip up in a smirk. The force of the fist that strikes my cheek sends me sprawling into the dirt. 

“That is not how we do things around here. Now I have to write you a ticket, and I hate paperwork. Dumb bitch.” He scoffs and shakes out his punching hand as I wait for the stars to disappear from my vision. I say nothing as he grabs his little pad and begins scribbling. He barks a command for my ID badge; I reach into my back pocket and offer it up to him. My face throbs. 

“Pray-eel-ya… You people and your dumb names.” I don’t tell him it means warrior. I don’t tell him he is pronouncing it wrong. I just sit in the dirt and await my ticket. He tears the paper from the pad and lets it drop to the ground nearby while staring at me with dark eyes. I stare back and wonder if someone loves him, if he has a wife that he treats kindly at home, perhaps a daughter he reads to at night. For a moment I forget why I search for humanity in the people that work so hard to deny my own, and then I remember—it is not for them, but for me.

“What the fuck are you staring at? Go get your damn water and get out of my face.” He turns and walks back to the group. The standoffish one looks in my direction and our eyes meet, but he cannot hold my gaze. Careful not to make eye contact with any of the other three, I move to stand and collect my belongings. An involuntary shudder escapes my body as the burst of an automatic weapon rings out from a distance over the humming of drones. The men have already stopped paying attention to me as I walk towards where Mari is hunched over on the shore collecting her water. She grasps my hand in hers and squeezes reassuringly when I bend down next to her.

“Praelia,” she whispers, “You should not have done that!” She is like my older sister, except my older sister is dead now, her body buried under the rubble of the house where we were born. Mari stares plaintively into my eyes and tightens her grip on my hand.

“What difference does it make? They will always find a reason if they want to,” I say, placing my other hand on top of hers. She gives me a weary smile and a small nod. 

“Sure, yes, but you don’t have to give them one stubborn woman!” She is right, but I also think that a few punches here and there are a worthwhile price to keep crumbs of my agency intact. 

“I know, I know,” I groan. We do not speak anymore.

Mari finishes loading her water and gazes at me with sad eyes. She starts to say something, but stops herself, and instead slowly trudges away from the shore with her payload. We cannot get home using the same path because it is one-way, so she banks the wagon right and away from the soldiers, away from the river, away from me. I cannot walk with her. I wait until she has a solid lead, and I begin my own trek. It is too risky to move in groups, even small ones.

The route back to the house is longer now that the settlers have built walls out of the rubble that used to be my university, and my arms quickly begin to ache. I stop in the shade between Mr. Lee’s shuttered sandwich shop and the pile of broken concrete that was once a candy store. Again, I catch the smell of garlic and chilis on a breeze, and my mouth waters. I think of the children and their painting, and I am consumed by hunger and longing. I remember there used to be a hole in the wall, near the crack. Now that the memory has surfaced, I cannot get it out of my head.

Before I realize what I am doing, my feet carry me in the direction of the children. I peek around the corner of a half-standing building and down the path that leads to the river. The four men are now three, and they are distracted by something on the tall one’s phone. I dart across the road and toward the general area where I think the hole might be. There are barrels to my right, just forty meters from my window in the wall, and I begin to quietly shift them one at a time. Between the sixth and seventh barrel is my gateway. I stand frozen, my mind buzzing with fear and possibility. 

This is insane. I am insane. I need to go. Home. I need to go home. Mari is waiting for me, she will worry and then she will go looking and no... Nope. I need to go home. But… I need… 

The burning sensation in the pit of my stomach is all I can feel now. Bile rises to the back of my throat. I swallow hard and take deep breaths to keep from vomiting. If only from a distance, I must witness freedom. I need to know the measure of it, the way it smells, the way it feels on my skin, the way it looks when you don’t have to consider it... Even if it means my life.

I get on all fours and wiggle my way through the hole. Rusted rebar is everywhere, and I have to be careful to watch for sharp bits. Tetanus is a death sentence—the lack of vaccines, just another gift from the settlers. I peek my head close to the edge of the wall and take in the immediate area. 

An orange tabby cat appears to my left, purring loudly and sniffing my face. I give her a rub behind the ears and she leans into it enthusiastically. I accept this as a good omen, and it calms my racing heart slightly. There is a bush blocking some of my view, but there, in the distance is the table, papers fluttering in the breeze. It appears that the entire yard is fenced in. Ideal. No passers-by to spot me. There are more bushes nearby to take cover behind, but I listen for voices before making my way out of the hole. It is silent. I climb out and crouch behind the bush to do another scan, hearing the occasional muffled laugh from a woman and a small child, but nothing more. There are several large trees in the yard that also provide good cover. Grass pokes through the holes in my shoes. I take them off, letting the cool blades tickle the soles of my feet. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and I forget myself for a moment. A slamming door brings me back; I put on my shoes and glance into the yard. It is still empty. 

I dart from the bush to a massive oak tree, now ten meters from the table. There is movement from behind the sliding glass door. I wait many long minutes, taking in my surroundings. Several doors thump closed, followed by a car starting. I wait a few more minutes before coming out from behind the tree, and then walk toward the fluttering pages. 

“Who are you?” comes the small voice from the large white wicker chair near the patio door. I see her now, furrowed brow and eyes wide, watching me over the chair’s back. It is the older child. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. I smile as sweetly as I can at her, and try to make myself small and unthreatening like my mother taught me. 

“Hello. I… uh… I’m Praelia. I live down the street, my mom knows your mom.” I am gambling. She eyes me dubiously. 

“Why are you here?” she says, turning to face me full-on. She seems more curious than scared. Good.

“My mom told me you were doing some painting, and I, uh, went to art school. She thought I could give you some pointers.” I wait. Her doubt shifts to thoughtfulness, and then excitement. 

“Oh! Yes! Please, that would be cool. I can’t get the eyes right… wanna come look?” She runs towards the table and sits, motioning for me to join her. As I move closer, I see the painting is of a man. The scent of her shampoo wafts over me as I sit.

“You’ve done very nice work! Did you take classes too?” I ask her softly. 

“No, I just practice a lot and watch YouTube videos. I am not good at faces.” She frowns. 

“I don’t think that’s true! Look at the depth you’ve created on his face. That is something only experienced artists understand. Here, let me show you how to do even more.” I take the brush from her and demonstrate. Her eyes widen as she watches the picture shift.

“Wow! That is cool. What art school did you go to?” 

“Uh, it’s not near here, it’s over in America,” I lie. 

“America! I was born there! I don’t remember much, we moved here when I was three.” She seems sad, as if she misses a place she cannot recall.

“Do you like it here? What do you do for fun?” I am suddenly desperate for information, to understand what it is to be on this side of the wall. 

“It’s ok, I guess. I have a lot of friends at school. My best friend is Abby, she is the best painter I’ve ever met. She helps me a lot too. We go to the mall sometimes. Mom drops us off and we get ice cream and go to Forever21. Who is your best friend? What do you do for fun?” I think of Mari and try to quell the icy fear that grips my insides. She is definitely worried by now. 

“My best friend is Mari, she is like my sister. This morning we took a nice walk down to the river and sat on the bank for a while. Sometimes we like to play football, but I kicked our ball too hard last time and we lost it.” It went over the wall, and just like my brother, it never came back. 

“Oh. Didn’t you go to the store and get a new one?” 

“No, not yet. Maybe later today…” I wonder if I could convince her to let me borrow some of her mother’s clothing. Perhaps then I could walk to the shops without drawing attention. Imagine if I came back with a ball! A brand new ball! 

“My favorite store is the outdoor one, they have soooo much stuff to look at, and a huge fish tank!” She grabs a clean brush and draws a line near the mouth that I don’t quite understand. 

“What is that?” I ask. Then I hear it. A door slamming. A man’s voice from inside.

“Daddy! I’m not done yet!” she exclaims and makes another stroke. Now I understand—it is a scar. Shit.

“I have to go. My mom wants me home, but keep up the great work! We will practice again another time!” I barely have the last word out before I see movement through the glass door. I run to the back of the yard towards my gateway as quickly as I have ever moved in my life. She yells goodbye over the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. As I shimmy through the hole, a familiar voice rings out in an unfamiliar tone.

“Hey honey, whatcha doing? Oh! Look at that! Wow! It’s very good, sweetheart, you are mighty talented! I have never looked so handsome.” He laughs.

I scramble out of the other side, and a jagged piece of steel catches on the leg of my pants. A sharp pain flares in my calf, and I sit upright to examine myself. Blood oozes from the small, deep cut. I instantly realize my deferred fate, but the spark that has bloomed within me refuses to be dimmed. I lie back and stare up at the sky, imagining I can still feel the grass between my toes. For a moment, I am enveloped by warm whispers of freedom and the laughter of children. I wonder if she will remember me.