Young Writers Society

I will never sing again, except for mourning songs. Singing is the worst thing in the world. Singing lost me my family.

My village is gone. My family is gone. And soon I may die.
So I continue to tell myself, although the harsh reality has yet to set in with the full force that I know it will when I finally accept these facts. Why can I not grieve? I sing the mourning songs, but with no one around to hear, I fear that the mighty One will not receive my lamentations. If my father was here, he would burn offerings of food and perhaps even sacrifice a young girl to the almighty. But my father is not here, and I have no one to grieve with. All gone.
Soon I may die. There is nothing to live for. Just ashes and ghosts of ones I knew. At night I draw my legs to my chest and curl my arms around them and hope that it doesn’t rain. I keep a fire going during the night to ward off wild animals. Perhaps tonight I won’t bother. That end would be faster than this slow wasting of my body and soul.
Already my stomach is hollowed, my muscles weak. Already the cocoa-brown skin stretches pathetically over ribs that had once been coated in a thick layer of baby fat. I had never wanted for food, my father, the chief, had seen to that. More often than not I would be the one to bring down a hare or even a warthog for our supper.
Until five long sleeps ago. They came in the evening, when everyone was at home. Everyone but me. I will kill myself over and over for that, if the animals don’t get me first. In vanity, I was bathing at the river. I was singing. I will never sing again, except for mourning songs. Singing is the worst thing in the world. Singing lost me my family.
I was singing, and did not hear anything that went on. I was too late to stop the flames, too late to halt the passage of the giant canoes with poles and fabric that carried away my family. Too late to stop the demons who burned our homes, raped our women, and carried off everyone regardless of age or physical condition as if they were objects instead of people with lives and homes.
Now my family is gone, and there is nothing left to live for.
My village is gone. My family is gone. And soon, I will die.