69 Short Stories

Part 29: Blood Stains, Never Again (1093 words)

Context: This short story was inspired by the Australian Gothic genre, with a specific focus on the Stolen Generation, a bloody remark in the history with the Aboriginal people, traditional owners of the land of Australia. The Noongar (Aboriginal Australians in South-West Western Australia) vocabulary used in this text were sourced from an online dictionary, and I cannot assure the correct usage of them. 

I'm aware that this could be a sensitive topic for some, and I would like to note how my intention was not to bring discomfort to anyone. If you think this would be something concerning you, please skip this chapter. Thank you, enjoy!

Blood Stains, Never Again

I did not know that history is like a blood stain that keeps on showing on the wall no matter how many new owners take possession, no matter how many times we paint over it. I thought we could bury it, drown it, in the flow of time. I was wrong. It will always resurface.

The doors creaked and stuttered inwards, sent dust flying. I drew in a deep, dry breath. Glad how this unfortunate place has been closed for 20 years. The dust particles descended - danced - in the trapped air, like feathers falling from the escape of a bird.

My fingers slid down the frail wallpaper, the nails scratched the dry, dying, falling surface that once covered my so-called home. This broken structure was then the only shelter for our tiny bodies. It shielded us from rain and storm with its own torment. But twenty years later, it appeared so small, so frail, so tender, like a skinny branch trying to hold up its own weight.

It's funny how we've forgotten that we change, and walls don't. This building imprinted on us the way blood stains imprint walls. We can try to cover them. I thought. But we should've known, that it will never fade.

Never.

I got off the bus, the burdens on my back felt heavier, as if they had been soaked with rain. But it wasn't, it was dry, really dry. I adjusted my hair, straightened my shirt and stepped into the crowd of what they call Australians. One step was all it took to return home. Because the next, and the one after that, followed naturally. My tribe, my town, my home.

I approached the cluster of weatherboard houses, that sheltered some of my tribesmen. My mother greeted me in our language, an art I have almost forgotten. We embraced, an uneasiness overwhelmed me - it was so stiff, our interaction, so unpractised and rigid and raw – as if I was embracing an inanimate object.

I'm home. I tried telling myself.

But it didn't feel like home.

Mum prepared the freshest vegetables – meriny, and eels – warda-noorn, for my arrival. Our kind of food was rare in the shops. It was a festive meal, though quiet, as I knew little noongar and she knew little English. I declined my mother's warm offer to stay with the tribe, it would be strange for me – a half caste – to interrupt their otherwise tranquil lives.

I walked, under the waning moon as white as the porcelain plates European settlers brought. The dry leaves shuffled chaotically in the distance. I exhaled, trying to release the misery that had accumulated in my stomach.

I looked up at the sky, into the night. The stars were much clearer than in the cities. Then down at my shoes - my feet - I didn't always have shoes. I wondered what it would be like for the concrete ground to crumble under them – break – die - disappear.

All of a sudden, everything – every living thing – went silent.

The darkness flooded the streets behind me, swallowed the noise, swallowed the shadows, swallowed my past and came for me. Me, my present, my future.

I ran.

My stringy, rough hair blew into my face and shielded my eyes, but I ran regardless. Like one of those childhood days of running in the bush. Like one of those days chasing after the car that took away one of my cousins. Like what my mother did when the white truck came, and the policemen snatched me by the shoulders - away from my tribe - my home.

It felt like what many of us had attempted back at the pale white church - the missionary - where the groundkeeper chased us on the aggressive black horse every time we fled.

Away from the car we ran, away from the groundkeeper we ran. Away, away, away.

Faster, faster, faster.

One step after the other.

Keep running, running, running, away from the ones chasing.

Away, away, away.

Again and agained.

My steps didn't echo – nor did they leave footprints – they just disappeared, their existence swallowed into the concrete ground, into the hardness and stiffness that's called European civilisation. The evening breeze chased me, the darkness descended. My knotty hair tickling the back of my neck and my heart. They've always hated our knotty hair, so dissimilar to their silky, flowy, golden strands. I ran, away from the car, away from the missionary, away from this empty night, trying, again and again, to conquer the brighter footpath in front of me.

What is it?

I questioned myself as I rolled my aching body away from the sunlight that shot through the motel's window and onto the stiff mattress.

What is it that's making me not me, making my home not my home, making me paranoid about the silence and tranquillity that I once desperately longed for?

Who really am I?

I shuffled into the dry, dominant, definite sunlight that doomed over Western Australia and headed towards the other side of the town, the wealthier part that belonged to the latest settlers. The pale white church and its pointy roof, the sacred place that was supposed to make us better people. They had taken down the rest of the missionary and replaced them with residential houses, more room for the newcomers.

The gate seemed much shorter than what I have remembered. I trekked into the courtyard, surprised that the weeds have declared their absolute dominance over this land. Most were up to my knee, some up to my yartj – my thigh.

I walked down the creaky wooden floor sheathed by layers of dooga - dust, towards the back of the church that was once our headmaster's office. I turned on the light switch, a few wild sparks and the dim, orange light came on. The headmaster's office that we once feared so much had been hollow for over 20 years. Gladly.

My fingers slid down the peeling wallpaper. The blood – ngoorp - our fellow tribesmen shed will forever stain the walls, regardless how many times they renovate; regardless of how many layers of wallpaper they put on; regardless of how many times they paint over it.

It will be there, forever.

Forever a stain on our past, forever a stain on the history of Australia.

What has happened cannot be changed. I thought, as I stepped out of the dusty hallways into the sunlit world outside. We can only hope such blood stains will never – ever – be spilt again. 

Author's note:

Hello, my dear reader! I would like to first thank you for reading this far. As you may notice if you look at the contents list, most of these stories were written in 2017, a good few years ago! I believe that my writing has improved a bit since then, so if you would like to see more of my more recent works then visit stories from Part 29 onwards!

Also, a snapshot of what is in this book:

- individual short stories, like this one

- small series, like "The Colour of U" or "Pompeii, it's August"

- an alphabetical list I started, I was going to write a short story for a class of 26, one chapter for each student and hoping to explore how some of their lives are intertwined. This would be spaced out among the later chapters, as sometimes I'd rather do some of the first two types.

Enjoy!