Waiting

Part One

"I am so tired of waiting,

Aren't you,

For the world to become good

And beautiful and kind?"

— Langston Hughes

          They say that our kingdom was respected. That it was a source of beauty and hope. They say that all of that good came crumbling to the ground when Angra took over.

          Angra is gone now, but it's no better. We were poisoned by his magic and are struggling to find our places in this new, magic-depraved world. The late king's former advisors and generals have taken it upon themselves to lead the kingdom, to keep us citizens in check.

          I glance skywards to catch a glimpse of the flowering trees, but my eyes catch on the gate in front of me. I've been walking aimlessly on the main road of the kingdom, the one that leads straight to the palace. Studying the curling black iron, I bite my lip. I hadn't meant to come in range of the watchers. I feel a glare piercing my skull and turn to look up at the soldier that observes me.

          We are being watched. Spring is a military state – crafted by war and destined to stay as such. Guards eye us from atop the wall as they march. We try to avert our eyes and ignore them, though their presence can always be felt.

          The soldier narrows his eyes at me and shifts slightly; I am making him uncomfortable with my unyielding eye contact. I realize I've been staring only after a few moments of dissecting the thoughts that run through my head. By this time, another guard has spotted our interaction and is stomping across the wall to berate the soldier, who still has his eyes on me. I blink once, slowly, to show him that I am not intimidated, and turn on my heel as the other soldier reaches him. I hear a steel-toed boot crash into a breastplate.

          In a few minutes I am back near home again. I can hear my baby sister crying from six doors down. It's easy to, because of the silence. Everyone is too busy starving to make any noise. I keep my eyes focused on the barely-pink-painted door of my home so that I don't accidentally look at the eyes watching me from behind smudged windows.

          We are being watched. But here, the stares are different. They are desperate and pleading, harsh and lifeless all at the same time. The kingdom has mostly forgotten about us in favor of the places nearer to the palace; places that house people who can afford to eat and employ people that are strong enough to work.

          I reach my home and lean all of my weight onto the door, pushing it open. I am bombarded with screaming, crying, and the acrid smell of unwashed bodies. I work to close the door silently, willing it not to squeak. I pad through the grey, crumbling hall on bare feet and stick my head into the door of our one bedroom. My mother's gaze finds me immediately. It's become duller recently. She motions for my to enter.

          My baby sister sees me and calms, hopeful that I've brought something to soothe her aching stomach. I heave a sigh and let myself plop down to sit on the hard floor. My mother closes her eyes for a quiet moment, cursing our misfortune for the third time today.

          I am the oldest child in the family, making me the one who is charged with finding scraps for us to fill our stomachs. It's not impossible, not without hunting equipment. We have none. The best I can do anymore is offer to help those with weapons set traps and hope that they will pay with a portion of their catch, or sneak around the back of the bakery to collect the bad bread tossed out for the birds.

          My sister inhaling to lung capacity and letting out a blood-curdling screech breaks the unnerving silence. I clutch my head in my hands, pressing my thumbs to my eardrums. That is the sound of disappointment to me. My mother leans back on her elbows and lets her head fall back. I'm sure that she'd very much like to be screaming at me right now as well. But she doesn't, because if we don't have family, we don't have anything. Not in our corner of the kingdom.

           I drop my hands in frustration. "I'm sorry. I don't..." I can't finish the sentence. I feel the sting of hot tears in the back of my eyes and how my stomach is becoming a lump of iron. My mother rests her hand over mine.

          "It will get better. They promise it. We must wait."

          But I am tired. I want my family to have full stomachs and patched clothes. I don't want to be the one feeling guilty when a soldier's eyes land on me. I want to be treated like a human being. I am so very tired.

          And I am not waiting anymore.