Whoanoua: Revolution

II: Them Days (B)

Continued. 3863 words.

It is a different day, a new day. And on this day, I didn't think much about the previous day. I hardly ever did that—recounted events. I always felt that they held me back in a particular way. And at 12, I didn't want to be held back. I felt so free, and that's how I wanted to remain. It's how I saw life. And despite my talks with Grandpa and most things that happened around me, I went on. Living life, like every day, was just some other new day that offered possibilities. I grabbed them without wasting chances. I was never one to, anyway. I took whatever came my way that felt deserved my attention, touch, or even connection. And freedom was among the cozy things that I felt all around me. And I loved how it felt, to be able to do the things I did, the way I did. I was but 12.

The world felt like a beautiful place. A place I desired to travel, see, but with no hurry. We lived in a vast universe, with differences which tore to the very cradles of our existence, and every version of today, to me, offered comfort. Peace. And at a point, it even started to feel like a discovery, regardless of where I was. I lived. In the same world as everyone else, I lived and saw beauty where the very scarcity of it would char eyes.

Where there were possibilities, all dreams were a reality. All that was needed was time. But oh, time was one luxury I couldn't afford. I didn't. It had enormous, huge wings. And a swift camouflage. Neither bird nor chameleon matched it, and yet, it flapped on and changed on, smoothly, but insanely fast, almost as if it was made for it. Time.

Lights fade in.

Natural noises filled the air, and I stood over a slope, bare-chest, holding in my right hand, a plastic can that I had with craft, converted into a seat of sorts. It was completely opened up on one side, leaving a hollow between where the can's upper earlier stood, and the backside. My tiny fingers went around the handle, which was the only part that seemed whole, oh—and the bottom too. It had to remain that way, to form what would become a seat. It needed to remain with both the handle and the base, you see, and of course, its backside too; it is where my half-naked buttocks would sit on!

I had my left hand clenched into a fist. I was covered in dust on the front, on my head, and the back. A tattered short dressed my lower part. My feet stood bare, and I looked once at the left, raising my toes as I did, watching the sand squeeze through them, before turning to the right and doing the same.

I smiled when I heard her voice call out, then looked over to the hill which faced the one I was on. Susan wore nothing but the grace of God on her top and an almost similar rag over her bottom. She was little and young, perhaps three years less, and her female features were taking slightly later than the other girls of her age to show. Susan wouldn't mind, therefore, playing with the boys. She still enjoyed their company, anyway, as they felt like all the family she had.

"Hey!" I called my lungs out, and almost toppled off the hill. My left hand swung a few times, then finally supported my weight, saving me from tragic embarrassment.

"Let's go!" Susan called back in her tiny, soft voice. She almost sounded like an echo from a past day.

I took my can and looked at the lads below, drenched in jealousy and awaiting all my literal pitfalls.

I remember the thrill of taking down those little slopes. I would first celebrate my courage and mastery of the skill the first few seconds down. Then not nearly halfway gone, I would wake to the realization of how high I was dropping, and how fast. The fear would seize me, and I would lose control and scream for help at the top of my lungs. And the little devils below would have their fun. Susan would later smile at me. Prod, then ask me to be braver next time. And knowing my fear of heights pretty well, one thing was already clear to me: I lost the girl long, long before I had her!