Character Stories

Gaata

I hurried through the playground towards a vacated corner, whimpering every time a rock struck me. Most of the time, they missed, but their aim had gotten better. I finally made it to my corner and curl up there, hiding my small body behind my battered and torn backpack. That was what I did for every recess; hid in my corner, with my backpack as a shield.

That was evident in my backpack; the rocks had torn it, the mud had stained it, and once or twice one of the meaner boys stole it and ran off, and I found all my things in puddles and buried in mud, and my poor backpack was scribbled on with marker that even Mama couldn't get out.

“Hey, freak!” one of the girls called. “where's your daddy, huh? I'll bet he's one of the soldiers, and you are too!” this shout was followed by rocks and dirt.

“I don't know, I don't know,” I repeated softly, clinging to my only protection; that poor, once-pink backpack.

“You know why your name's Gaata?” the same voice called. “it's short for Gotta-Get-A-Daddy!” cruel laughter followed that remark.

I hugged my backpack straps a little tighter, wishing someone would stop them. But no one ever did. The teachers all made fun of me, too, and Mama couldn't stop them because she was too busy working. She needed to feed us, and the people weren't any nicer to Mama then they were to me or Dinyl, because she was our mother.

Finally, the bell rung, releasing me from my private hell-hole. I jumped up and bolted for the gate, crying out and stumbling when a sharp rock cut my antenna, much to the amusement of my assailants. I raced towards the run-down shanty I called home, praying that my twelve-year-old brother would be there. Sometimes he wouldn't come home until way after supper, and when he did come, he was black and blue, and once his arm had been broken!

I threw the door open and rushed in, slamming it behind me. “Hello? Dinyl?” I called for my brother, knowing Mama wouldn't be home yet as I leaned my back against the door.

There was no answer except the echoes of 'Hello, Dinyl?' off our painfully bare walls. Unable to stand it anymore, I slid my back down the wall until I was in a sitting position, just like in the park, hugging my knees and sobbing. There was no one there, I was all alone and scared. Blood trickled down my antenna from the deep cut left there, rolled down to my cheek, where it mixed with my tears so that the pink liquid fell down my cheek and left a light trail on my red face.

“Why did he leave?” I whispered to myself, as more tears fell. “why?! This is all his fault!” I screamed to the empty house, beating my tiny fists against the floor like a little kid having a tantrum. “if he hadn't left we'd be fine! Why did you leave?!” I shrieked at the only picture I have of my father, of the happy Irken holding Mama to him.

I guess that's when I decided I hated my father.