My Dear Laurens (Lams)

J. Laurens

Imagine living a life of peace and security. Imagine having a family, a home, a culture, a language, and independence. Imagine happiness. Then, imagine it has all been taken away from you. You might be playing with your siblings or your friends, cooking food with your mother, or learning to hunt with your father, and then you hear something. You hear loud voices, screams, and cries. You sit outside with your family, the people you hold most dear, and all of you turn to the noise.

Next, is what you see. Across a cropped field, a grassland, a farm, or a body of water, you see men. Men deprived of the depth and warmth of color you hold in your own skin. White men, barreling toward you, red-faced with weapons in hand. Some hold guns, swords, axes or whatever else they could find to cause harm.

You freeze. You try to move your hand to grab your friend's, but when your eyes move you see your friend has run away. Run to their family and their home. So, you try to reach for your sibling, who, like you, are stuck in place. Only, you can't move your hand. You can't move your feet to be by their side, and you feel as if you can't move your lungs, even though you know you are breathing.

You're in your father's arms now. You can feel his heartbeat against your shoulder, pounding like a drum. But, this time, the music is not pleasant. No longer do you see pink faces, scowling and snarling at you; you see your mother. And your sibling in her arms. Your mother was sprinting, just like your father. Running away. Something you never expected to see your parents do. Always brave, always strong, and always fighting back.

Why not now? Why didn't they fight back now?

Next, you see red.

Water is not red. This was not sweat, spit, or even rain.

Your eyes were on your mother, and now you see red.

When you look to the ground, you see your mother again. Red on her chest. Red in her eyes. Red in her mouth. A bullet. A cut. A gash. Her eyes are open, but they don't move.

"Mama," you say.

"Mama," you cry.

"Mama," you scream.

Your mouth is covered. Your father sets you down and turns. Your father fights back. His arms, like the forelegs of a lion, beat into a white man. The white man falls. He is dead. Your father turns to you, he looks down. His eyes are on your mother, and him, like you, do not see your sibling. They have vanished into the blue sky.

Your father's eyes go wide, and he runs to you, palms open. You feel an arm come around your stomach from behind. You are being dragged away from your father, and your father is not moving.

Why doesn't he fight for you? Why does he kill for your mother, and stand still for you?

Again, there is red. It trickles down his forehead, where a small hole appeared. He bends at the knees, and his face is buried in the mud. He lies next to your mother. And you are in the arms of a stranger.

You are not frozen. You grab whoever's arm which holds you and rake your nails into it. You whip your arms around, and kick against their legs, and wriggle away. They drop you, and you look into their eyes. They smile. This smile brings back a memory. The night a cobra crawled into your home and slid its body across yours. You were sleeping, but the scales against your skin woke you up. The first thing your eyes settled on was the black eyes of the snake. Its tongue flicked out, and it made a sharp hiss. That night, your father saved you. Today, you are alone. And this snake wrapped its hands around your neck and drags you across the ground. Your legs and feet cut on rocks and scrape against the dirt. You look up at the devil and watch his hand drop to the ground, pick up a rock, and hammer it down on your temple.