Songs Of Sparrow

Prologue

                                                                     S O N G S    O F   S P A R R O W:

                                                                  p r o l o g u e (nine years, fifty days)

“MAMA,” I BAWLED, “what are you doing?” I was met with a trembling quiver upon her lip, as she held the gun to her head. The hollow look in her eyes and the weariness evident in her posture and attitude unnerved me. The gun that was now trapped between her curled fingers had been Master's shooting gun; Mama had stole it, and only God knows what possessed her to do it.

“Sparrow,” Mama started, her voice weak, and my heart wrenched with guilt at how I had never noticed that voice; how I'd never paid attention to her eyes, which were now voided of emotion, and the worry lines permanently etched onto her broken features. “Take care of Robin for me. Please. Take care of your little sister.” Every word she uttered seemed strangled and choked, but nonetheless, I nodded, feeling my heavy head ache with every movement. April was my little sister. She wasn't born properly; always forgot instructions a minute or two after they were given, and always getting her darned head into so many issues. Yet I loved April, she was like God's bundle of light in a broken, dimmed world.

“Mama!” I yelled, my voice strained from all the emotions soaring out. “Drop the gun, Mama.”

The door suddenly rattled, and I heard an angry cry bellow from outside. I gasped in shock, and panic as I realized what that meant; Master was home, and Mama stole his treasured gun. Surely that would be the end of her! I had to stop this, I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't.

“Mama, please drop the dang gun,” I whimpered, tugging at the hem of her worn shift. She gazed grimly at my pleading, expectant eyes. Her transparent eyes closed shut, and she pressed her pointing and middle finger onto her temple—a remedy to help her calm down. For a while, the room was just filled with nerve-wrecking silence, me clutching Mama tightly, and her doing the same to the gun. I sighed in relief, as she released her hold on the cursed gun, watching it drop to the ground. The refreshing clank of metal reverberated through the room. The violent thrashings against the door continued, causing my stomach to churn. Master wasn't violent, but if you pulled off such a foolish stunt as this, he wouldn't hesitate to chop off your toes, and a pinkie.

“Sparrow, do what I ask of you okay? Promise me,” Mother urged, her voice dangerously low and her eyes pleading me to comply. “Promise me, Sparrow!” I could feel her strong grip on my shoulders, and then the thrusting of my head as it whipped to and fro. She was shaking me so hard, I could see the Morning Star. For fear that I would lose my head, I quickly nodded. I could feel my eyes burn, too, as I nodded, but I kept on nodding anyways. Nodding to try and find a simple reasoning in my nodding, a simple reasoning that would make everything else make sense. But nothing did, and that's what made everything worse.

Urgently, she roughly yanked me to a deserted, cramped space which smelled peculiarly like soured buttermilk. The dimness of the room disturbed me, but I made no attempt to show it. All I wanted to do was hug Mama so tight while I could, because if there was something I knew about living as imprisoned servant, it was that death came as easily as a sunrise set in. And spending nonrefundable time scrubbing at the grimy, dirty floors of my master's parlor, I took to the brutal realization that freedom didn't come as easily as death could. It took some might time to flourish; to bath in it's exquisite beauty—one that every captive person longed to see—but it took some mighty time too long.

She suddenly stopped at the center of the room, her body facing a large big window. For a moment, only the heaviness of our breathing was audible, airily swarming in sync.

“Sparrow,” Mama drawled, her lovely voice sounded like fresh, warm biscuits that just oozed out melted butter. I loved it, but I didn't relish on the fact, knowing that if I believed nothing would happen, it would be so. “Mama loves you, honey. I love you, your sister....everyone. Even those who treat us unfairly. And, my child, if you don't see me tomorrow...” I clamped my eyes shut, hot, prickling tears threatening to fall out.

“Sparrow,” Mama called. I attempted to smile, knowing exactly where she was getting at.

“Yes, Ma,” I countered, lazily saluting like a drunk sailor. She smiled a cheekily smile, revealing her slightly yellowed teeth. I smiled too, knowing Mama's smile was doggone contagious, and if you didn't smile, then there was an issue. Mama made even the toughest, callous men budge a grin. If she wanted, she could part a river and lead us all back to freedom, but she was too kind, with that warm soul of hers that radiated on a frigid, winter day.

“Sparrow!” Mama reiterated, her voice firm and steady like a captain calling for attention.

“Yes, Ma!” I replied.

“Sparrow!”

“Yes, Ma!”

“Now how many times did I call you?”

“Three times, Ma.” I chirped, looking her square in the eye. She readjusted my bonnet, before smiling proudly, scrunching up her nose as she did so.

“Good. And what does that mean?” Mama questioned warmly, and I fluttered my eyes shut, as if trying to bask in the sweetness of her voice.

“You're with me in my past, present, and future.”

“You believe it, do you not?”

“Y-yes, but Ma-”

“Good, Sparrow. As long as you believe that, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.” And, like before, I nodded. Trying to find meaning in life which fulfilled none. With a hushed, yet serene, voice, Mama explained me how to escape the premise through the attic, and I listened only halfheartedly. Mama wouldn't have to instruct me on how to escape Master's house if she was coming to. It seemed almost too surreal; my current situation, and my life in general. Life without Mama was like living in complete darkness, wandering mindlessly through hell.

Yet, with a tugging heaviness in my heart, I nodded when she asked of my understanding.

“Go, my sweet Sparrow.” were the last words she uttered, before placing her rough palm to the small of my back, and exerting just enough force to send me stumbling for the ladder leading to the attic. Leaving me to live a life without her. Without my mama. And the song of my broken heart diffused from me; the start of many more to come.