“Zahara!” My sister, Daliha, shrieked. I sighed and rolled over onto my woolen blanket. Doesn’t she know that I don’t like to get up this early? I squinted at the sunrise peaking over the forbidden woods and slowly went over to the mirror. An ivory brush sat on the floor, but today I didn’t feel like brushing my hair. I grabbed an old scarf and threw my fiery red hair up into a makeshift bun, which I knew Daliha wouldn’t approve of.
“ZA HAR RA!” Daliha sounded so mad, it was almost funny. Almost.
“Coming,” I sighed.
As I slowly trudged down the stairs, I wondered what I’d have to endure today.
“Zahara,” Daliha said with mock kindness, “Zahara, there is a chicken in the house. A dead chicken. Care to explain?”
I rolled my eyes and looked at my huge, fluffy white cat, Bonsai. He probably dragged it in. Dead bits of a rotting chicken scattered the floor. I could tell why Daliha was so much angrier than usual though. Blood had spattered all over the front and back of her frilly, pink dress. She must have slipped and fell into a puddle of blood, but knowing her, she’s too proud to admit it. Without out a word, Daliha swaggered off, apparently very happy that I had to clean up a rotting chicken.
I sighed and looked at Bonsai. “You don’t hate me too, right? You’re still my friend.” Bonsai meowed as a response, so I took that as a yes. I grabbed a rag and a bucket, and headed towards the river beside our house. As I bent down to pail the water, I froze. Something was behind me, I could feel it. I whipped my head back, just to see what I normally see. Our dingy, small house, which sat upon a hill. Part of it was wooden planks, and parts of the house were random pieces of metal that I, of course, had to find.
Tears filled my eyes remembering why the house was so torn apart. When I was just 8, in the middle of the night, our house had caught on fire. My parents had yelled for us to run out, to save ourselves. I will never forget the way my mother’s ice blue eyes were filled with tears, or the way her skin was charred black and bleeding everywhere. I will never forget the way my parents were engulfed in flames. Since the river was beside us, Daliha and I had filled every bucket to the brim, and dumped it all over the fire. It was too late though, and my parents were dead.
I knew why and how the fire started. It was my fault.
It was all my fault.
