𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝕷𝖎𝖊𝖘...
The morning sun gleams down on the Carver farm, hot and white in her eyes. Clucking chickens eagerly follow Sinclair as a gentle humid breeze rustles nearby trees. Her straw hat lightly brushes against her white linen shirt, the soft, breathable fabric tucked into her pants. Why, it's like being Dorothy in Kansas. There are no unexpected guests today. No hosting. Her mother had promised her the dense trees, the flick of a creature's ear, the smell of sulphur curling from the end of her barrel. But time with her mother will have to wait until her chores are over.
Feed the chickens, collect the eggs…
The 12 year old crouches near the hens' enclosure, having surrounded herself with feed. She watches the chickens peck at the ground with a little smile, but it is shredded immediately when a shrill cry emits from her home. Sinclair's pupils shrink and the hairs on her arms stand up. The basket of feed spills to the ground and she jumps over the fence, running to her mother's voice. Another pained yell erupts—this time deeper—chilling and rattling her bones.
In the living room she is met with a view of her mother, that upbeat sharpshooter, shakily bracing herself at the dining table, phone clutched in hand. Her father's callused palm, strong and experienced, is pressed against his own lips in an expression morphed in sorrow. Every second that passes fills Sinclair with dread. Her lungs are singed by that dense summer breeze, heavy like a reaper's hand upon her shoulders.
"…Mum…? Dad?" Her voice is small. Cautious. Liz Carver looks up with a sniff, quickly wiping her eyes. Her father turns away from her, his hand hiding his own face.
"Dear—" The mother twitches a smile, "We… we have to make a trip to the hospital, okay?"
Sinclair frowns and her eyes flutter, considering the possibilities of the scenario. "Why? I heard yelling, are either of you hurt?" She comes over to her father and pulls his arm, wanting him to face her. The father gives in and looks at his daughter, his eyes pulled down by weariness. His green gaze, usually warm and gentle, are empty and pink around the edges.
The girl's chest turns cold, and her eyes flit from her father to her mother quickly, expecting.
"Your auntie Margaret and uncle Paul… they were… in a car accident, and we need to go see them immediately okay? No more questions, get changed and bring a cardigan. We'll talk in the car." Liz's voice is tight, caught in the back of her throat. She rushes to the car to remove her hunting gear before the ride to the city.
"…Okay." Sinclair purses her lips, and does what she is told. Obedient.
Something terrible has just happened. In protecting herself, she expected the worst. They are going to die.
She just… has to adapt and accept it.
────✦────
In the car, despite her mother having said they'll speak, they did not. Aside from her parents murmuring to each other and the sobs that came every now and then, out of shock of the situation they did not address their child.
Sinclair observes her parents quietly, not raising her voice. She does not want to hinder them in this moment of vulnerability. I will keep out of their way. They are hurting.
Her light amber eyes are reflected at her as she stares out the window, watching the countryside gradually turn into concrete and bright lights.
She recalls the aftermath of a hunt years ago, and the rich smell of skinned deer, her mother's words gentle yet firm…
"Life and death… it is part of nature. Never kill without reason. People need to eat, and well Sinclair, people like deer and rabbit around here." Her mother had wiped away a tear from her 5 year old daughter with a smile. "We have to make sure we cherish every part of the earth that keeps us alive, and use as much as we can so we don't waste anything. We are part of the earth's life cycle too, and someday we'll return to the earth to help plants grow."
Sinclair's big eyes glanced up at the deer carcass, skinned and hung on a butcher's hook, blood draining into a bucket. Her mother coaxed her chin away from the deer. "The meat of this deer goes to people's bellies, the skin is cleaned and made into leather to be used. Some people buy deer hoofs and antlers. Every part of this deer will be loved, my kiddo."
Sinclair looked at the deer again, lips wobbly, brows pinched. "…Mum… will every part of me be loved when I die too?"
The woman smiles awkwardly at her daughter's candid question. "You… don't need to think about that, but… I promise. Every part."
The 5 year old's clenches her jaw. She hugs her mother tightly, face buried in her shoulder. "I'll love every part of you when you die, Mum."
────✦────
TThe smell of sanitation stings Sinclair's nostrils and makes her head ache. The hospital staff could be heard murmuring in the background. Sinclair's extended family members have all arrived at the ICU waiting room, antsy and on edge for any updates on Paul and Margaret. The air is littered with quiet sobs and stressed redness mars her family's expressions. Hands held together, embraces, tight squeezes of the shoulders, any attempts at comfort are shared between them. Sinclair watches in silence, sitting on one of the chairs as one of her aunts approaches her, seemingly shaken by the news.
"Sinclair—" Her lips quiver as she sits down right next to the girl. "You… you have to be strong." Her hand is firm and heavy on Sinclair's shoulder. "Life… takes things from you. You're growing up so fast… Be careful… be independent. None of us are going—" she wails, pressing her forehead against the girl's shoulder. Sinclair could only look at her aunt stiffly, her body leaning away from her forced touch.
Why is she saying this as if they're already dead? Stone-faced and feeling uncomfortable, Sinclair comes to the conclusion that the adults probably were told more than she herself knew. To Sinclair, her aunt seemed like she was reassuring herself more than anyone.
The aunt sits up and places her wet palm on Sinclair's cheek, her throat tight with sorrow. "Why… why are you like this?" She stares into the girl's pale face, "Aren't you upset?"
The mushiness of the hand on her cheek urges her to respond, to please her aunt so she leaves.
"…I am upset," Sinclair replies quietly, her eyes shifting away.
"Oh, Sinclair," the aunt sobs and pulls the girl in for a hug, stroking the back of her head to console her niece.
Her light amber meets her mother's from across the room. Being in the middle of her relatives, for now Liz Carver can only offer a weak, comforting smile to her daughter, trusting that her sister in law is easing whatever turmoil is in the girl's heart.
But Sinclair didn't feel it.
Not when the doctors come out, their lips mouthing "I am sorry".
Not when her father's knees buckle, and bursts of mournful crying and sniffles ricochet throughout the room.
Not when she is held in an inescapable embrace, her aunt's trembling sobs drilling into her ear, and the chaos of her family's grief plays in slow motion over the woman's shoulder. The blue-white fluorescent lights flicker and buzz. A feigned sorrow underlines the doctors' eyes in an attempt at sympathy. Several other people in the waiting room can only look at the Carver family in pity. Amongst the displays of sorrow in her family, a few chose to display their pain in a more reserved manner. Pursed lips. Quiet tears. Arms held around themselves in self-comfort.
It's… just… part of life. She had already accepted they were dead hours before the news. I barely knew them, she tells herself, trying to remember when she'd ever felt any strong attachment towards them. A cold, unsettling feeling pools in her stomach as she observes everyone else. And for the first time in the middle of family, she feels utterly… lacking. Wrong. Her eyes frantically jump from person to person, comparing them to herself.
"Aren't you upset?" Her aunt's voice echoes in her head. "Why are you like this?"
Sinclair's lips purse, and a tear drips down her cheek into the fabric of her aunt's dress.
────✦────
"Isaiah speaks of 'comforting all who mourn…'" a cassock-clad figure starts, his voice warm and solemn.
August 11th. A somber air fills the church during the funeral ceremony. Two open caskets lay side by side near the altar, and framed pictures stand on black easels, adorned with ribbons. The priest is kind, gentle, and sensitive to the family's loss. Family members and friends take turns to give their eulogies. Sinclair could only remain seated, watching. In the caskets, the faces of her aunt and uncle, mended by wax and frozen by death, did not look real. She wonders if they really were their bodies. The girl pinches the fabric of her trousers.
An imposter.
"In our sorrow, we shall let our faith guide us to join our loved ones, our neighbours, in company." Father Benjamin brings his hands together, head lowered. "May togetherness grant us 'a crown of beauty instead of ashes', and 'the oil of joy instead of mourning.'"
It is… part of nature.
No sorrow or anger plagues her mind—rather a cold lack of attachment. It is… calm, absent. But this makes everything… painfully louder. The creak of benches. The wet sobs and sniffles. The way small details, once ignored, now scream out to her. A hairpin out of place, an extra wrinkle under someone's eyes, the slightly crooked tie of her uncle in his open casket—tied too tight by her father. Sinclair reaches and grasps for something that could give her any real emotion, and when that does not offer her any, she grasps harder. The redness under someone's eyes, quivering hands that clasp together in an attempt to tame their trembling, wax and paint on skin hiding torn flesh. Lying.
The makeup on the corpses do not look right.
An unbearable overwhelm is stuck in her gut, blocked by a vast emptiness.
....A...black hole.
In her mind's eye, she sees herself being crushed and stretched by an unfathomable force, turning her into a single, insignificant string of flesh and bone.
Her lips purse in discomfort, feeling unwell.
