PANSY is standing in the foyer of their house, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at her. "Where have you been?" Pansy demands. "I've been worried sick."
"Nowhere," she lies.
Mahra doesn't take off her coat at the door, and instead brushes past her former language teacher into the living room. The hands of her frosted wristwatch and of the clock above the fireplace show that it's well past midnight. The bookshop owner was kind enough to offer her an evening shift there, for extra money, and told her she could stay here as long as she liked. The spare keys of the bookshop jangles in the pocket of her winter coat.
"You're not working more shifts, are you?" Pansy asks. Mahra is sure she notices the dark bags sagging beneath her eyes. But Pansy doesn't remark on them.
"You're working yourself out, Mahra," protests Pansy. "Just let me lend you some money so you can go home."
"No." Mahra shakes her head. "I want to learn to fight on my own. I need to be stronger by the time I get back to Indonesia."
There is a pause. Then, Pansy sighs and nods. "I understand." She twists around to leave the room. "But being strong doesn't mean refusing help, Mahra."
The instant Pansy's footfalls on the staircase fade, and a door creaks open and clicks close, Mahra succumbs to the burdensome weight crushing down on her chest. It feels like the entire world has come crashing onto her.
She presses her palms into her closed eyes. Everything is too difficult.
Too cold.
Too painful.
She takes out her phone, scrolls to the most recent message. From Maia.
Dad's packing.
He said he's leaving tomorrow. Don't worry about us. Grandma's taking us in. I'm taking care of lil bro until you've finished your studies. Love you, sis.
YOU ARE READING
THE DREAMER'S LAMENT
Short StoryIn the hearts of dreamers, lament will always linger. Sadness can bloom into the brightest, lambent shades, like the rain giving way to the phantom of a rainbow, like the promise of hope. But sorrow may also wind down a darker, colder path. Our hear...
