widewhitestairs said: hey kandance. it’s just a small thing. i haven’t had time to read the story yet, but i’m sure it is really good and there is something wrong if they thing you’ve fucked up or that you’re trash xx xx
ffîon you are so sweet :( i felt silly so i deleted the post with the story in it but i will put it here just for you because you are so nice xoxox
60 Hours
Eight hours.
“Her legs,” the diver throws his mask down as he ducks into the tent. He opens his mouth to say more but some awful thought dawns on him before he can get it out and his lips meet. He frowns. “Her legs,” is all he can say.
A second diver grips his friend’s shoulder. “He means that Omayra’s legs are trapped. Underneath the roof. Bricks and concrete.” He hesitates and goes to say something else, then strangles the words. These men are not used to tragedy, nor are they really men. Still, few of the volunteers are qualified to handle disaster, having nothing else besides their goodwill, and none among us are adequately equipped.
“What is it?” Avràn has no patience. He is a village man and a doctor. He knows the girl and her family. He held her hand while she mourned her father.
“There’s a woman down there too.”
“Is she alright?”
“No.”
“Then there is nothing we can do for her.” The doctor’s shoulders rise slowly with a long, laboured breath, then he lets them drop and turns away. The divers are visibly shaken, by the dead body or the doctor’s surrender, likely both.
Fifteen hours. Two new divers retrieve the woman’s body in the evening and bring it into the tent, tailed by a little boy. I have half a mind to shoo him away but Helen catches my eye from across the tent and shakes her head. The woman’s body is bloated from being in the water for so long, buried beneath the house, and she brings flies and the smell of rotting meat, sweet and thick.
The boy sits down beside where they lay the body. “She’s my aunt.”
“I’m sorry.” I regret it as soon I’ve said it, it seems such a silly thing to say and so empty. What good will it do her now?
He tries to slip his hand into hers but the fingers are stiff and the balled fists will not unfurl. Defeated, he kisses two fingers on his left hand and presses them to her forehead. I notice that his pinkie is missing. The wound has been recently stitched shut, albeit crudely. It almost makes me laugh, it’s so absurd that we should be surrounded by all this death and this child has lost nothing but his little finger. No, his aunt too, and soon…
“Is she going to be okay?” His voice startles me out of my silence and I’m ready to let another platitude tumble out of my mouth but instead, I say nothing. I can’t find it in myself to lie to him and Helen sees it in my face and crosses the tent and smiles, her eyes creasing at the edges. She smooths back his hair, still smiling, but then she falters too and only says, “We’ll do everything we can.”
No bodies, only ruin. Sweeping the skeleton of the village one last time, a strange plant is growing through the cracks in the crumbling concrete, swaying in the wind though the air is still. It isn’t swaying so much as twitching - yes, not a plant at all but four… fingers. I’m on my knees in the dirt, digging, clawing at stone until my hands are bleeding and she is free. I can hear a soft murmur, a girl’s voice speaking in Spanish. Padre nuestro, que éstas en los cielos, santificado sea tu nombre… Short, black curls spring up, then a face. She gasps and smiles gratefully. She is still talking in Spanish but her skin begins to turn ashy now, peeling away, eyes turning milky white, bleeding, crying, and I fall back, terrified. I blink and I’m in the tent again. A moment of peace before I remember where I am, wondering only how long I have been asleep.
Forty-nine hours. Dappled sunlight through the dense copse of trees behind the camp gives the impression that we are underwater. Helen is hunched over a small box recovered from the ruins of the municipal hospital, unpacking the meagre cache of medical supplies. A shadow passes over the front of the tent, disappears, then reappears moments later. Avràn is pacing outside and cursing loudly.
“She’s been asking for you.”
“I know.”
“Please go see her. Just, no crying.”
“I’m sorry, I know, I won’t.”
From where we’re standing, we can see the shadow of the doctor thrown on the wall of the tent by the candlelight, terribly tall and looming, and hear his muffled voice yelling at some poor government official on the other end of the satellite telephone. “It’s been over forty-eight hours!”
Helen sighs. “I can’t believe it. I keep thinking there must be something we could do, if we could shift the debris…” If we could, but we can’t. If we do, she’ll lose her legs. Avràn couldn’t save her with what little medical equipment we salvaged from the hospital and no help is on its way. Helen doesn’t need to give voice to the overwhelming sense that we have failed, it is all around us. The air is thick with it, the leaves of the trees are weighed down by the weight of it, turned grey with ash. The sky is clear but dark, as if she has gone into full mourning.
Omayra smiles widely when she sees me coming and in the dark her teeth glisten. “Did you sleep well?”
I nod. “Isn’t anyone else out here with you?”
“No, I just sent them away, to let them rest.”
“Are you alright?”
She shrugs and seems not to notice the way the murky brown water around her rises an eighth of an inch. Little ripples ricochet off her shoulders, she’s nearly neck-deep. “The tyre’s a little bit awkward, but I guess I can live with it.” Can and will. A rubber tyre was the only way we could keep her from drowning. Her palms are bloodless, nearly stark white against her tan skin; the whites of her eyes are deep, dark, blood-red. Pale tracks run down her cheeks from where she’s been crying.
“I’m afraid.”
I hold her hand. The skin is wrinkled and ice-cold. “It helped when we sang yesterday, didn’t it? Maybe -”
Her eyes widen abruptly and turn wild, darting around. “What am I doing here?” She begins to struggle, gripping my hand tighter, trying to free herself. Her scream sends the doctor running out of the tent. “I can’t be late for school! I can’t be late again this week, Mr. Ramirez warned I’d get detention - and there’s the exam on Monday, can’t be late, or else I’ll miss Maths and I need to catch up - for Monday - but I can’t be late - Mama! What is the doctor doing here?”
Sixty hours. The sleeping lion looms in the distance, still smoking, unforgiving and proud. Her mother sinks, falls to her knees, lips parting only to deliver a terrible silence. With her cheek pressed to the ground, palms facing the sky, her body convulses, thrashes. A cloud of dust and ash rises around her and it will not settle. Her tears carve out rivers on the ground, finding no ocean to run to and the earth will not have them. It is morning but it is hot and there has been no rain for three days. The earth is cracked and dry, but she will not take a mother’s tears; no, she will not take those, too.
