I'm sorry

“Please kill me.”

I

“See it’n ‘ur mind. Concentrate.”

I grunt.

“You almost got it. Come on, boy. C'mon.”

Envision it flowing out of your fingers. Envision your body as a dam. Open the dam. Let it flow.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

I grunt again. It’s getting painful to be holding my hand up like this. And I look stupid.

Open the dam. It’s not that hard. It’s like turning a key. Come on. Come on!

“There we go!” He laughs.

Droplets of water flow out of my fingertips, falling directly below into the soil.

I look meekly at my grandfather, who puts a hand on my shoulder still proudly laughing, and say, “That was hard.”

“But you done it!”

“Yeah, but…”

I sort of wish I could make more than just a few droplets.

“As dey say, practice makes perfect,” he says, with another pat on my shoulder. “It’s ‘ur first time you kno’. Now, let’s go back. It’s time t' eat.”

I nod, and head along with him to his home—now mine as well, ever since two weeks ago.

II

Stiffly, and muttering an apology or two, I go past the wooden door and close it with a shrill creak following behind.

I let the bag my grandfather had made me carry down and wipe the sweat off my forehead. My grandfather looks at me once, before heading off into the kitchen. As he does, he says, “You kno', for bein' a city-boy… you’ve got guts. I like that.”

I put a hand to my neck. “T—thanks.”

“Try t' be mo' sure of ‘urself, ‘kay? It’s what all depends on.” He opens a drawer, and from it removes two jars filled with salt and cilantro. He sets them down on a table to his left.

“I’ll—I’ll try.”

He closes the drawers with a loud thunk, then turns back to me and swiftly says, “Now go sit and wait a little will ya.”

After giving a sheepish glance, one that I hope communicated my gratefulness and shame, I follow his orders and sit down on a chair, promptly slumping then spilling my torso over the table.

It’s hard to feel sure of myself when I’m dismissed like that. Or when I can’t produce more than a few droplets of water. It doesn’t matter that I’m a city-boy who wants to be a farmer if I haven’t been able to help in the two weeks of my stay. It doesn’t help that I can see my grandfather struggle more each day. His movements slow and his joints stiff.

What use am I in this house? I can’t help these kinds of thoughts. They come by without my consent, as if to assail me while defenseless. I can’t understand their purpose in the slightest.

From the kitchen I can hear my grandfather hum an old tune as he peels potatoes. Surely, even from here, I can see he’s smiling. As grumpy as he may look while working or talking to people—his eyes are always narrowed and his brows always furrowed—inside he is very much a sweet man. And so is why I want to help him. Managing the crops will at some point break him. I can’t let that happen.

Time passes without me being aware, having fallen asleep.

III

“’ey.” I heard a clunk as he sets down a wooden bowl right before me. “It’s ready,” he says.

I look up to him, still dazed from my sleep, muttering a shy thanks, gaining a nod and a smile that exacerbated the crow’s feet in his eyes.

He soon sets down another bowl across the table, sitting down with a painful groan and a sigh.

And so we begin to eat, with no more than a glance shared between us.

The food is delicious—incomparable to what I'd eaten in my previous home. Processed as it was, not taken directly from its source; sullied with magic and the fingerprints of the greedy. It is nice to be here, away from all that. Having privilege access to fresh vegetables. Perhaps the only thing I miss is meat. But I don’t suppose I’d be able to eat it any longer. It reminds me of him.

The frequent clunks of my spoon against the bowl stop rather abruptly, and soon so does my grandfather’s. “What ‘s it, son?

“Sorry.”

I return to my eating. Soon so does my grandfather. However, he gives me one glance before he stops and says, “’re you w’rried about ‘ur father?”

“No.” I keep my hand moving. The food in my mouth feels oddly dull. Chewing is a chore. “No, I can’t be.”

“I get you. It's normal t’ be w’rried. But sometimes you just can’t do naything abo’t it.”

I get that, but…

“How long—how long will it be until a mailman can come?”

“Dey usually com’n’ here ev’ry month. News should be ‘roun next week.”

“I see. Thanks.”

As I return to my bowl, he returns to his own. And as we do, I wonder if this feeling of anxiety shall ever fade. How long have we been at war? It may as well never end—perhaps with both sides dead. Why, really, why’d my father have to be sent to fight?

IV

I’m sure my grandfather is grieving, too. There hasn’t been a night where I hadn’t caught him gazing at a faded, old picture of a young woman. I’m sure tears no longer spill from his eyes, for he had already spilled them all.

During one such night, having been unable to sleep thanks to my assailing thoughts, I went and asked: “Who is she?”

“’ur mother,” he’d replied, in that accent of his. “When she was sixteen. A year ‘fore she got married.”

He handed me the picture, and I could only handle it with obnoxious care, fearing it would crumble beneath my fingers. My touch was dirtying this picture, sullying it with the fingerprints of an ignorant.

“I guess you never got to meet ‘er.”

“Yes. She died when I was ten—”

As though annoyed at my remark he leaned forward in his chair, looking at me in the eye. “’Er real self, boy. ‘ur father. He stressed the ‘ell out of ‘er.”

“Is that why…?”

He leaned back into his chair, a small flare of hurt in his gaze that he shied away, looking at the bookshelves to my left.

He nodded, slowly at first. “Yeah. She turned.”

VI

I dig the shovel into the ground with a grunt. It doesn’t go much beneath the surface. Using my foot as support and my own poor strength, I slant the shovel and raise it. I do it perhaps too harshly, as bits of dirt and grass end up flying into the air.

“’Ey.” My grandfather approaches me from behind. “You’re ‘olding it wrong. ‘ere.”

He takes the shovel from me and holds it in his usual way. “It’s ‘ur tool. Can’t be ‘fraid of it. Confidence, confidence.”

With a groan he digs the shovel into the ground, gracefully rising it, carefully—securely, not a tinge of overexertion in his arms.

“There. See?”

“Y—yeah.”

I think it’s more an issue regarding strength. Even at his old age his strength far surpasses mine.

He hands me back the shovel, and I take it with a concerned look I hid too late.

“Thank you, my boy.”

“What for?”

“’elping me out. You’re doing me”—he straightens his back, a groan of pain and relief escaping him—"a great favor.”

I haven't done anything.

“No. Thank you for letting me live here.”

He chuckles. “’ts the least I could do.”

V

I thought I knew how the story went. My mother caught an illness, and in a ride to the hospital, she’d died surrounded by nurses and a few loved ones.

She turned, he had said. How shocking it was to hear that word carry so much weight. I had only seen it in newspapers, presenting a horrific event far away from me—learning my mother had gone through such process, of wishing for something so much your mana twists your body and mind, felt like I had acquired forbidden knowledge. I had trod into ground I shouldn’t have glanced at. And now, I can only look down at my feet, at this ground, and wonder, why must my family be punished so?

My mother had to be captured and put down as if she were a rabid beast. My grandfather had to watch it happen. How cruel must the world be?

The news shall arrive in the coming days. I doubt I will hear of the conflict, but there is a small, sliver of hope that that newspaper may contain the words ‘withdrawn’. How happy will I be then, knowing my father will safely return home. I’d insist for him to live with his father-in-law, work here taking care of the crops, become one with nature; abandon all that is human, all that greed, violence and fury that plagues the city. We’d succeed my grandfather, give him the kindness he deserves, and in such way redeem ourselves for having watched and done nothing.

Will she be happy, then, for once in her life?

VII

Wiping the sweat off my forehead I walk into our home, the smell of soup soon inviting me to the kitchen. However I refuse, instead choosing to sit on a chair nearby, a bad feeling scourging my stomach. It feels as if it had sunk—or perhaps, as if it was twisting along my axis, determined to make me dismiss the food I love. Yet I attempt to remain resistant, taking a deep breath.

“Son,” my grandfather calls me, his voice unusually weak. “I think… you should look at this.”

My stomach, that which had sunk, instead rises up my torso, carrying filth over my throat. I ignore this feeling, as it is in my head, yet I cannot help the assailing thoughts that come after. What if the news had arrived, including in them the telling of my father’s death? Or perhaps, they never tell of his death, yet mentions our forces had been annihilated, and we were to be invaded by our enemy? Maybe, it was none of that, and it was simply my head that wished to think of my family’s tragedies.

I head into the kitchen, and see my grandfather holding the newspaper in his hands, glasses adorning his eyes. He looks to me, and removes his glasses. I can see the slightest hint of a tear in his eye, threatening to leave.

“Oh.”

How else am I supposed to react? Cry, knowing I can never return to the home I had known? Cry, knowing I shall ever remain useless until the inevitable death of my grandfather? Or blame myself, for not looking after her and for not begging him to stay?

What am I supposed to do, living now as useless weight, an intruder of no family, in my grandfather’s home?

VIII

If I cried earlier that day, I no longer remember. All I can see are memories, flashing in and out, of what I did then. I worked. I failed. I worked. I failed. My grandfather tried to help me. I slapped his hand away. I worked. I failed. I must have fallen asleep, once or twice, and dreamt of them, together, smiling at me as we ate supper. I dreamt of all of us, sitting around the table of this poor home, conversing, laughing at our banter. My grandfather would go into the kitchen with an “excuse me”. My father would look at my mother and smile. My mother would comment on the field. How rich of life it feels. How different it is from the city. My father would tell one of his stories as he’d always done, being a traveller once when young. Then my mother, as my grandfather comes in, would scold him for telling that story again—my grandfather would laugh. Turns out that was when they met, in the field, under the watchful eyes of my grandfather.

But that’d never happen. Not now. We have been torn apart. My mother had turned, and killed out of necessity. My father had died in battle. My grandfather had lost all his sons. I have lost my parents. All that can be in this home is us two, grieving, quietly, sipping our soup, never tired of potatoes, and then the next day would come, and we’d work, quietly, with me, failing, an insult to my grandfather’s work, forcing him to work double.

I can’t have him die, now that he is the only one I have left. I can’t. I need to do better work. I must.

And so now I must leave. In the dead of night, when he is asleep, I must leave and tend to the crops. I will learn behind his back.

IX

I can barely see our work in the blackness of night, but I must keep trying. I must harvest. I must produce water. And I must not let tears fall, nor must I let my mouth quiver, my mind overridden with memories and fantasies. Crying is prohibited. My grandfather would worry. He has a good soul. He’d see my tears and he’d shed his own, but he no longer has more to spill. What sort of suffering would that cause him?

Touch, look and judge even with the scarce light. Sow the seeds you deem good, so the work for that day will be easier. Prepare the soil, let water fall from your fingertips. Mechanical, perfect. But insecure all the while.

It is when I step close to the forest that I hear a strange, but familiar sound. Strange in its timbre, familiar in its tune. That is the tune my grandfather loves to hum.

X

I walk into the forest, despite my mind refusing, and then I see her. A girl, petite, of a long, silver hair that seemed to glow under the night. She held her hands together in front of her chest, her head slanted up to the sky. I stop, partly, perhaps, out of fascination at her form, and the beautiful rendition of my grandfather’s tune.

She turns her head in my direction, a smile plastered on her face, and says, “Hello.”

I step in closer, half-surprised at her noticing, and after a trudge through the weight of my heart I respond, “Hello.”

She returns her gaze to the sky, but stops her humming.

“How do you know of that song?” I can’t help my question.

She turns to me, flabbergasted perhaps, as her eyes turn wide, the flush in her ears nearly invisible. “Oh, you heard me? How embarrassing.”

“It was quite beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation quietens, and all we can hear are crickets, the movement of the leaves above us, and the breeze that passes through our ears, lifting her hair. She holds a hand to it.

“It’s an old song. I didn’t expect you to know of it.”

“I just heard it from my grandfather—he liked to hum it while cooking.”

“It’s a very sweet song. But quite sad, too.”

Sad? That’s curious. However my voice has become tired, and I cannot voice my thoughts.

“I think it represents how I feel.”

“How you feel?”

“Yes. It’s,”—she lowers her head, her voice becoming meek—“it’s rather complex.”

“I see.”

It was bizarre, having this girl talk to me so naturally, and sing the tune I had thought my grandfather’s. Or for her to have detected a hint of sadness in that song I had always thought to be of happiness. My grandfather had stopped humming it, for reasons I can discern. I wonder, now, if after learning of my father’s death, I can hear the sadness in the song.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her head having turned to me. Once finally I get to take a look at her eyes—looking much like gems, sapphire, blue, resembling the sky’s colour. Tranquillity and calm, they exuded, but was that, that glint, perhaps, a hint of something underneath? That flash of red, of twilight I’d seen, my mind ought to be playing tricks.

“I heard you while… while walking around. What about you?”

“It’s my favourite spot.” As she talks, she walks, gracefully, with her nightgown flowing gently, to a trunk at our left, away from the moon’s and the stars’ intrusive light, before taking seat upon it. “It’s away from everything.”

“Do you like to be alone?”

She remains quiet for a while, a nearly imperceptible change in her expression. “I would say…”

She never finishes her sentence, instead having it interrupted by the sudden sound of birds flying up the trees, the hoot of an owl, and the never-ending crickets, and by her own voice, diminishing, disappearing, her expression static, beautiful, turning her image into that of a frozen princess.

I look away, distraught, partly due to the turmoil her face and words had brought me, and partly due to the grief. Maybe she has felt that, something worse than I have felt at the time of my father’s and mother’s death.

“I shall go. It’s late,” I say. I do not want to leave, but I mustn’t look away from my work.

The life returns to her eyes, lost in reminiscence, and looks to me with a curl of her lips, a smile. “Thank you. For being here.”

I haven’t done anything.

XI

Once again I am here, despising myself, burying my shovel into the ground, the sun’s light a reminder of the work I have laying before me. My grandfather drinks water, offering it to me right after. I refuse. I will not drink until I can work.

“That ain’t any good, son.”

“It’s a reward.”

He looks at me with an estranged look. I turn to my shovel. Maybe he doesn’t understand how I feel, living here while providing nothing. I can’t simply sit there, in his rocking chair, on our porch, and watch how the pains in his back return, rabid and relentless, while showing me a smile as he crouches to tend to the plants.

A grunt as I rise the shovel. My gaze is drawn to the forest. And I remember the events of last night. The girl of my age I met, her long, silver hair, her sapphire eyes, the white nightgown she wore; her words, the face she had made, and the tune she sung that I cannot forget.

“What’s that song you always hum?”

“Oh, that. Don’t remember where I hea’d it. But ‘ur mother liked it when she was a schoolgirl. Why?”

“Oh. Just curiosity.” I return to my work.

XII

This night I shall go out once more. I will work, without a break, and learn. Then I will sleep, and tomorrow I will keep working.

Harvest. Sow. Strain your eyes, and judge if the seed is of high quality. Work. Work. Crouch, stand, crouch, stand. Walk. Wipe your sweat. Undeserved sweat. You shouldn’t be sweating. This is low-effort. Improve.

There it is. That tune again, the girl’s beautiful voice. It comes from the forest, as it had yesterday. And I can’t help my being drawn to it, defenseless against the current, her allure, and sooner than I think, I arrive to the forest, beside her singing form, a clench of my fist.

Fearless, now, I step in to her zone. Perhaps rudely so, but I can’t find myself to care. The world around me has swept away, and all that remained was her voice and my anger, acting much like water and fire.

She hears my steps, and turns to me with a gasp. “I didn’t know you’d…”

“I heard you again.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Yes.”

“That is embarrassing, I’ll be honest.”

“You mustn’t feel embarrassed.”

She looks at me, a crease in her brow, and walks towards me, looking up at my face. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, why?”

“Your voice is curt. And I can see it on your face. You’re angry.”

“Why would I be angry?”

“…Perhaps my singing is bothering you?”

“No. No, I insist it’s rather beautiful. If anything it combats whatever anger I may feel.”

“Sweet words…”

She retrocedes, if only a little, lowering her head. I shy my gaze away.

“Perhaps I’m just angry at myself.”

She raises her head, an inquiring look veiled behind the blue of her eyes.

“I’m supposed to be doing things. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“I had to come. See you again.”

Perhaps she blushes, as she lowers her head, a tiny giggle escaping her. “Well, here I am.”

At her giggle and gesture, I can’t help the smile. “I believe I can see that.”

With her returning to her spot, beneath the slanted light of the moon and the stars, I follow her, and sit on the fallen trunk.

“Do you come here every night?”

“Yes.”

“Is it fun?”

“I wouldn’t describe it as fun but… relaxing, perhaps. Yes. That’s a better word.”

I nod in response, as useless as it may be—she is focused on the moon.

“You told me, yesterday, that you were walking around when you heard my voice. Was that true?”

“Oh. I was… I’m sorry, I was trying to tend to the crops…”

“At night? Forgive me but that’s rather bizarre.”

“Yes, I, uh… I wish to help my grandfather. But I come from the north and it’s not quite what I’m used to.”

“That explains your dialect, then.”

“What about yours? We speak similarly. Do you also come from the north?”

She hums, then says, “I wonder.”

The leaves around us fly off the ground, their fluttering sound relaxing upon the backdrop of the night. Trees around us move, shake, and we sometimes hear the small, dull sound, of an apple striking the soil.

“Why did you come here all the way south?”

And for one reason or another, after a small struggle against the blanket covering my heart, I reply, “My father was sent to war.” What pushed me to be honest I do not know.

She remains quiet, still her head slanted to the moon. Then, in a voice I can barely hear, “How terrible… how terrible war is.”

XIII

My grandfather looks to his bowl, and I can suddenly see the wrinkles in his forehead, the crow’s feet in his mouth and eyes, how his cheeks look sunk in, and the look we share, with one eye of his deviating from the middle, and that tired, tired gleam, imperceptible if unattentive, that plagued them for the slightest of moments.

“Are you doing all right?”

“Yes. Don’t w’rry abo’t it, son. Just a little tired, is all.”

“Please tell me if there’s anything wrong.”

“Don’t worry abo’t it.” His tone is rather exasperated.

I look back upon my bowl, guilty of his anger. I angered him when I am supposed to be helping. I can’t keep going like this. I must improve. But how will I? How will I, with this fog in my brain? How will I, with so many things having happened, that I can barely concentrate on this food? Why did I think this food was more delicious than the one I ate with my father and my mother? How is that possible? How is me being guilty possible?

I let go of the spoon, leaning forward, a hand on my forehead. I mustn’t cry, not in front of him. Who cares? If I must I will. But no, not in front of him. Why must I go through this? Why shall he?

“I’m sorry, son.”

His voice. His voice is breaking. He’s getting old. No. He’s crying too. Even if he has no more tears to spill.

“I’m sorry…”

He’s grabbed me. I’m covering my eyes. He’s sobbing. I am too.

“I’m sorry…”

XIV

“War tore us apart. It killed my mother. My father. It truly is a terrible thing.”

There she is, looking up at the moon. And yet, despite the fact I can barely hold my tears, a calm smile is plastered on her face.

“I wonder why we must do it. Perhaps it’s in our nature.”

“But why must it be so evil?”

“That… I don’t know.” She sighs. “It’s confusing.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“Would you rather I cry?”

“No… no, I’d rather not.”

Silence falls upon us, like a mother tucking in her child to sleep. And she moves from her spot towards me, then sits beside me on the trunk.

“I think, though, that it is a matter out of our reach.”

“What do you mean?”

“Caring for it will bring us nowhere. We cannot stop wars for ourselves, no matter how much we scream at the lords. After all, it is their decision to send their men to their death.”

“That’s no different from killing.”

“Yes. It’s no different. They’re monsters. Masquerading as purity and men of the people. It doesn’t work like that.”

“But that’s so infuriating. We can’t do anything, how dare they do that?”

“I believe it is dissatisfaction that brings change.”

“Much change dissatisfaction will bring! I’m sure I’m not the only one here, grieving the death of a loved one, feeling ‘dissatisfaction’ for the lord! And what will he do next? Ignore our pleas and continue on the war.”

“Anger is what you feel. Now imagine you, and the many others feeling anger. If you unite, I wonder what will happen?”

“Do you mean a revolution? A coup d’état?”

“No. It doesn’t need to be that violent.”

I sigh. Her words sound naïve to my ears.

“But I insist. Let’s not talk about this any longer.”

“…Yes.”

She remains silent for a while. I watch her face. As she is silent she looks like a flower. The blue of her eyes and the white of her hair and nightgown, melting together into a pansy of rich colours. I can feel the breeze come, and pass through my hair and ear, and along with it, I can feel my frustrations fly, far, far away from me, my gaze never leaving her face.

“You haven’t told me much of your grandfather. How is he?”

“Oh. He’s a good man. Very kind. I wish I could take some of the work off his shoulders...”

“It seems you respect him a lot. Does he work much?”

“Too much for his age, I’m afraid. It’s… it’s starting to show.”

She lowers her head. “I’m sure you can help him.”

“I’m trying my best.”

XV

How long has it been since I learnt of my father’s death? I no longer remember. But I can still feel the ripples. Whenever I see a newspaper my throat tightens. Sometimes, while I’m eating, I remember what I felt that day, and all the food in my mouth lose their taste.

I wonder why does it happen.

“What do you think of war?”

My grandfather besides me perks up at my question, and answers, “It’s ‘orrible, what can I say. But…”—he coughs once—" inevitable in the end.”

How can it be? I can’t understand. How can it be inevitable to send thousands to their deaths? Ridiculous. So ridiculous, and insulting to my father. For these lords to stay secure in their mansions, their maids and butlers ready for their every demand, while they send, knowingly, thousands of poor people to die in a useless battle! I find it ridiculous. Insulting. Chilling. I hate them with my life.

XVI

“Perhaps you could use that hate as fuel for your work.”

“How do you think so?”

We are both sitting together on the fallen trunk, an apple in our hands. I take a bite as I wait for her answer.

“Make it your motivation to strive on forward.”

“Wouldn’t I be living off of spite, then?”

“I think your situation is different. It’s anger you feel, and it’s change you want. You are angry, so you will change things.”

“You said this the other day. I’m sorry for my outburst.”

“I understand.” She takes a bite.

“But I think I can understand, a little, of what you’re trying to say. I’m not exactly feeling anger, but rather a desire to change?”

“More or less.”

“That makes sense. It’s a little gentler, then, than I had thought.”

“Perhaps why you don’t have such a strong reaction.”

And the crickets come to the front once more, followed by the swirling around of the wind passing through the leaves. And as we fall quiet I watch her take a bite of her apple.

Sometimes I wonder. Her hair is silver, and her eyes crystalline, sapphire. Her nightgown never changes, always remaining in its pure, unsullied state. A person of her ethnicity I haven’t seen once in my life. Not to mention, I still have yet to catch her name. Who is she, and what is she doing here?

“Would you mind if I were to visit you and your grandfather during the day?”

XVII

I stand up to see my grandfather walk towards me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, boy.” He coughs, violently turning his head away from me. As he relaxes, he returns my gaze. “You’ve been a great help.”

“I’ve been… I’ve been trying to improve. I hope it’s actually been of some use.”

“Oh, you can’t w’rry abo’t that. You’re doing ‘ur work just fine. But I ‘ave to say you’ve improved.”

Perhaps my nightly lessons have helped, in one way or another.

“Thanks.” And I return to my work. It is then that I remember her proposition yesterday. “Sorry. I, uh, I've met a girl about a month ago. She said she’d like to come visit sometime soon.”

“Huh. If she wants to. Where’d you meet ‘er?”

“The forest over there.”

“That’s weird.”

I stop.

“There ain’t a thing past that.”

XVIII

There she is, in the distance, dressed still in her usual nightgown. She raises her hand, and does a movement I can’t see but discern—a wave, of proportions as small and soft as her hand—and I respond in kind.

And then here she is before me, her form as pure as the nature around us, and my grandfather turns to her, his back slouched and his eyes tired, and says, “Hello”, and she responds with a smile and a nod, turning to me; and I am frozen, as if I was a tree in the dead of winter, as I look at her eyes, unmoving, relentless—and then I say, “Hello.”

“Hello,” she answers, looking at us both, her voice a quietening calm.

“Shall we go inside?” I look at my grandfather as I talk, then at the girl, gesturing towards the cottage behind us, the shovel below my palm tilting.

“’Course. ‘Course.”

We go inside the cottage, the door’s creak a welcome.

“It’s quite cozy,” she says.

“Aye.”

“Please, feel yourself at home,” I say.

And after a word of thanks, she sits, gracefully, on a chair next to the dining table. I follow her, sitting next to it. My grandfather looks at us both and says, “I’ll go t’ the kitchen n’ make something.”

He leaves.

“He’s a little grumpier than I thought he would be.”

“He’s rather… jaded with people. Please don’t mind him. He means well.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.” Despite her words, her gentle tone and smile told me she genuinely thought so.

So silence befalls us again, and I am unwilling to deny its comfort. Then my grandfather coughs, and it sounds painful. I stand up from my chair and rush to the kitchen, yet he raises a hand and I stop. In-between the coughs he mutters, “Don’t w’rry abo’t it.”

XX

“I think I can see why you’re worried about him.”

There we sit, on the trunk, the moon’s and stars’ light weak.

“He’s getting old.”

“Are you… afraid of his death?”

And at those words I remember what I had felt when my mother and father died.

“It may be impossible not to. He’s the only one I have left.”

“You’d have me.”

“That’s… true.”

It seems the wind is not present tonight. The leaves that had fallen off the trees remained static on the ground.

“I am glad to have met him.”

XIX

“She seems a good girl.”

That was what he said when she left, his voice somewhat husky and with a grate; a fatigue, unnoticeable, I’m sure, to himself. And after a minute of silence he speaks again, “Take care of ‘er.”

“Yes.”

He remains quiet for a while, as if looking still for her parting form, or perhaps admiring his work—when he takes a breath, far too shaky for me not to sense, and says, “Can I ask you a favour?”

For one reason or other, I feel my stomach sink, much like it had done when those accursed news made to us. Yet still I nod with a gulp.

“Can you please take care of the work today? I need to… I needt’ go t’ bed for a li’l while.” And as if to accentuate his words, or to worsen my feeling, he coughs, it resounding as though it were thunder through the cottage.

XX

“I’m sure he’s glad to have met you, too.”

“I hope he will recover soon.”

He has to. I do not want to experience those feelings, raw as they were, again. The wound had not yet closed. I am still burnt with the death of my father. I would not be able to handle my grandfather’s death.

XXI

He grunts as he stands up from his crouch. And I can see how he almost loses his balance. The burn in my chest aches and I wince.

“Are you alright?”

“How many times have I told you?”

I stand up, too, and rush to him. “Please go lay in bed, you’re not feeling alright. I’ll take care of the rest of the work, so please—”

“How many times have I—” he coughs, violently, before he can finish his shouting, grasping at his head as if to stop it from bursting.

“Please…”

XXII

“I think… he’s getting worse.”

“Why do you think so?”

“His coughs have been getting worse. And he can’t tend to the crops as he’d used to, either.”

XXI

His breathing is irregular. It’s too heavy. He is exhausted. He crouches and he takes a minute to stand—and I’m sure it pains him, to no longer be able to stand as he did once.

He sometimes groans and clutches at his head, and stops doing whatever he was doing, then sits on the chair on our porch, the glance he pays me surely one of apology. But I don’t need any apology. I need him to recover. To stop working. I need the burn in my chest to stop aching.

No matter how much I ask he refuses. And I cannot tell what it is that’s chaining him to work. I can’t continue on like this. I need him to stay here.

Now he is here, next to me, sitting, resting, looking down at our work. He’s breathing heavy, and fast. He swings his head, and he swings it as if it had a weight unimaginable.

“Can you please get me some water?”

And I rush inside the house then bring him a glass of water. He grabs the cup, his hand shaking. Then he drinks. It spills to his garments.

“Thanks. I’m sorry.”

“Please. Don’t work any further today. Just lay in bed.”

“No. I need t’ work.” He stands, a surprised groan of pain escaping him.

“But why?”

“I can’t do anything else. That’s why.”

XXII

“What can I do, I wonder?”

“I think… maybe there is not much you can do.”

“But he will die otherwise! I cannot let him keep working while he’s like that, but he won’t listen to a thing I say!”

“You really are… afraid.”

“Of course I am! Who wouldn’t be? He’s the only I have. The only family I have. I can’t let it happen. Not now. Not now when my father’s dead. No.”

How could she not understand? She has seen me at my worst. She knows how painful death is for me. And we have talked about war and agreed it was terrible.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I cannot understand.

XXIII

There it is again. The burn in my chest. The sinking of my stomach. The lump in my throat. It has come back full-force, as if I had returned to that day, when he and I read the newspaper, seeing how one had turned and killed many—and I am remembered, once more, of what I did that day, of how I slapped his hand and not eaten, and how I thought of the happy memories we could’ve shared. They come back once more and I am afraid, so afraid, that I would never again eat my grandfather’s food, grieving, quietly, and never grow tired of it, or how we could’ve worked, now that I had become more efficient, laughing at our simple banter.

He has collapsed. Oh, he has collapsed! There he was, standing near me, and once he uttered a curse and clutched at his head I knew something was wrong. He tried to walk but his body wouldn’t let him. His legs twisted and his balance was off. He’d fall. He had fallen. Tripped. And he has not moved since. He has not moved since! He is breathing but he is not moving. He is moaning from pain. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.

XXIV

My grandfather is in his bed. He is still in pain. I am sure he is no longer conscious of where he is.

He is muttering incoherencies. Apologies. To me and my mother. But his speech is unintelligible. I can only wait and watch him die.

He still clutches at his head. I cannot talk to him. I am frozen, like a tree in the dead of winter. I cannot comfort him in his last moments. He is dying. Oh, God, he is dying. He is laying here before me, apologising, and I cannot do anything but watch. His eyes are closed. He is sweating. I don’t know what to do. I cannot talk. I cannot comfort him. Why must I be so useless? Why must my family be punished so? Why must I be punished so?

It all escapes from my grasp. And I cannot understand any longer. I am in fear. Frozen in fear. In fear of death. Perhaps that is what had driven my anger. My fear. I had always been afraid of death. I cannot handle it. I cannot fight against death. His breathing is weaker. Why must I watch him die?

I cannot do this. And so I tear my eyes away from his dying form. To the back of me I can see the entrance. The open door leading to our work. And I can admire the greenery, the life of nature. But then she appears. She blocks my sight. Her white nightgown that seemed once as pure as nature now looks sullied. And I can’t tell why. There she is. And she is looking at me. And her expression is blank.

“I’m sorry,” is what she says.

I look back to my grandfather.

He is not breathing.

He is not apologising.

No longer. Not anymore. He never will. His eyes are closed and they’ll remain as such.

He died when she stepped inside.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why have you done this to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Lying to me for this long.”

“It’s part of nature.”

What is?

“You lied.”

What is part of nature?

“I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t tell then, when I had met her. I couldn’t tell every other day I had met her. I couldn’t tell then when she had come here. If I could I wouldn’t have gotten near her. If I could I wouldn’t have let her near my grandfather. How could I, when she had turned?

“Who are you?”

“Death.”

You who I once thought I loved. You for who my heart stopped beating, assuming it was more fawning than fear.

You who had caused me so much harm. You who had taken my father, mother and grandfather.

“He was soon to go.”

“Lies! You monster!”

Oh, Death, you monster! Why have you done this? Why have you done this to me? I thought I could trust you! I thought I loved you!

You, who now I hate so much!

“I’m sorry.”

You monster, you thief! Who have stolen the lives of my family, and thought it wouldn’t be enough after my father’s death! Why did you have to come here, and ruin our lives even further? Couldn’t you think it enough for him to watch the death of his daughter, or for me to learn of my father’s passing by a newspaper?

“Please…”

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much! So you know I wouldn’t let you leave, not here, not alive!

Against you I will fight, against you I will fling myself! And I shall not freeze, O Death, and I shall not be vanquished, for my fear had turned into hate!

“Please kill me.”