The Keepers' Evil

Diary one: I longed to give him some shred of relief

Song- The yawning grave: Lord Huron

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A butterfly.

There was a butterfly. It landed on my brother's frail hand. It was like a peace offering from the universe to say I'm sorry.

Its glass wings fluttered for a moment to let us see how the blue faded into purple, how its tiny body was as fragile as the one of my brother. It was like a reflection from the universe to say I'm sorry.

It had long feelers that sprouted from this tiny body, a way to let this defenceless creature make sense of the world. They tickled my brother and made him laugh, as if the butterfly was a friend of his own to play with. It was like a giggle sent from the universe to say I'm sorry.

But the butterfly wasn't happy. The butterfly wasn't here to stay. The butterfly was thirsty, desperate for water. The butterfly was dying.

The butterfly's glass wings shattered and its body toppled from my brother's frail hand.

There was a butterfly. It landed on my brother's frail hand. It was like a peace offering from the universe to say I'm sorry.

There was a butterfly. It taught me that the universe was harsh and the world was cruel. It taught me that the most innocent creatures would be the first victims that death claimed. It taught me that the universe was unforgiving.

It taught me that I should be too.

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Fight or flight was something I had heard before. My father had explained it when I questioned why the girl in my storybook had run away from the predator that was out to get her. With each page that we turned, the girl became more and more fearful of her surroundings, she became terrified of the predator out to get her. I was confused; why hadn't she stayed to fight the evil, why had she allowed it to scare her the way it did?

She chose flight over fight, my father had said with a chuckle not far behind in his tone, ruffling my hair with a smile to redirect my deeply profound questions.

My father had always branded me as such a deep thinker, but in reality I was just subconsciously allowing my mind to plan each escape route; do I fight, or do I flight?

But where do you run when your predator is everywhere all at once? Who do you fight when your enemy can only be felt?

Where do you run when the sun is the predator and your enemy is the thirst that blisters your already bleeding lips and makes your organs burn as they die inside of you? What do you do when you can't fight or flight?

Feldcroft's drought made the air thick, like breathing in a constant heavy smoke. It made the sun feel like splinters in my lungs with even the tiniest ray of light becoming a searing source of pain. It made us all fall in love with the nighttime when the air was somewhat cooler and our need to quench the nagging thirst was lessened by the excitement of watching the glisten of the stars in the sky. 

But no amount of stars could align to heal my brother. I knew as my father looked up each night to see the world that the stars inhabited, that he wished we were there and not here, that whatever planets were hidden behind the clouds were better than the one that was killing his child.

I knew at four years old that my brother was never going to get better, that one day life would exist without him and my father would become a shell of himself. I too, like my father, looked to the sky in hopes that maybe the stars would take pity on us and take us with them when they disappeared in the morning.