The Survival

Chapter 21

I'm seated cross legged on the ground, with my back to a tree while I observe my hands and fingers. The hand that we found from the unknown person still scares the shit out of me and seems like that feeling is not going to disappear anytime soon.

I gaze carefully at my hand, it's very pale, but nothing compared to the mysterious hand, the other one was much paler, and it was purple.

My tiny fingers are moving, something that had not happened with the other.

My nails are purple, which reminds me, again, of the hand.

Every time that I look at mine or other hands, I remember that awful day and that horrible act.

Who in their right state of mind would do that? Who would cut someone's hand? I guess that no one would rip their own hand, so you made it, and why?

I grab a small twig that was standing not too far from me and start drawing on the floor. I push the leaves aside with my hand and use the twig as a pencil. I draw whatever comes up on my mind.

A curve here, and a curve there. A line here and a circle up there, in minutes I have a work of art in front of me.

Okay, maybe not as great as one of Leonardo da Vinci's paintings, more like Picasso's, since at first sight you don't understand what I drew.

On the dirty floor is drawn a middle size house, with an apple tree by its side, and the sun is shining brightly. Behind the lovely house you can see fields and mountains, yet what capture your attention first is the family with smiley faces and holding hands.

The taller is my dad, next to him is my mom and then there are James and me.

This simple drawing is a precious gem to me. Because this wasn't the first time I did this. When I was a young naive girl, in a class, my teacher asked us to draw what we cherished more in life. I drew exactly this.

In the 5th grade they asked us to draw a happy memory. I drew this, even though it wasn't true, so it wasn't a memory, yet I wanted it to be one, and I had faith that it would happen.

Eventually 11th grade came, and Mrs. Poppin told us to draw or write what we wanted our future to be like, or what we wanted to be, like our profession. Anything, it only needed to be related to the future. I once again presented this lovely paint. Everyone thought that it was an older me, my husband and kids, yet it was a past wish that I wanted to become reality in the near future.

It never did.

Looking down at it I realize that I will never receive the love that I always wanted my parents to give me. They will never look at me like I'm their little princess even though I'm now 19 years old. They will never feel proud of me, because they never truly cared about me and James.

When I had nightmares, it wasn't my mom or dad who would wake me up and assure me that it was just a dream, it was James. He was the one who would be lying next to me until I fall asleep in his comfy arms.

I always had hope that everything would turn out to be fine, but when they told us that they were going to divorce, I knew that any glimmer of hope that I had was lost.

Last time I saw them was when they left the house with their belongings. My dad got in his car and my mom in hers, and just like that, they were gone from our lives. James was 19 at that time, so he took me in.

This happened two years ago, I never saw my parents again, they sometimes call when it's Christmas or Easter, but that's it. They don't even remember my birthday.

Passing my thumb over my brother's draw I make a silent wish.

Please, James. Find me and take me out of these woods. I need your hug, and your kisses, even your stupid jokes. I want to hear your voice at least one last time and tell how much I love you.