As Featured in Under the Wing
A Short Story
The mother and daughter in black veils lay flat on their stomachs under an abandoned dump truck, the camp long behind them. Rocks poked up into their pale hands as they watched through poorly cut eyeholes the boots of a police officer. The body-length veils covered the tattoos on their foreheads; the mother rested her hand on her veiled daughter’s shoulder. Breathe through the mouth.
The pant leg of the patrolling officer lifted; on his calf was a crossed-out zero next to a one. Their help reduced us to animals, the officer said to someone. Self-defense is not violence: we were right to take DC but not to make the camps luxurious. Our sweat is cheap to them.
They must learn what giving does. Another pair of boots appeared. The officers were previous soldiers once sent with dead friends to fight in foreign wars. Forgiveness will not teach them what they taught us.
The voice of the first officer lowered. Then they will change?
Then we will all change.
The mother waited for their argument to escalate, but the officers only moved out of sight. She rested her veiled head against her daughter’s ear. Sleep. We cannot travel by day. Make the waiting quick.
Her daughtered obeyed, and the mother lost sight of the tires and oil dripping from the engine. She was in her bedroom, warmed by her husband’s body. A shotgun. The front door creaked opened. She sat up in bed with her lover. The intruders shouted throughout the house that all was well. The mother and her husband carried their young daughter up into the attic. Huddled in the corner, the mother told her daughter that they would live. The attic door dropped open; a head popped up. On the brow, a zero dripped fresh blood with a slash through it. Help.
The mother opened her eyes. It was dark under the dump truck, and the mother remembered how her husband asked what they had done wrong in the driveway of their home. He raised his voice at the intruders; he lowered his hands from behind his head. Self-defense is not violence.
Will they shoot us? her daughter asked.
If you are shot, fall, and do not move.
Should we go back?
We would have died.
We will die here.
You will not die, the mother said. They crawled out from under the dump truck, dragging their faces through dirt, oil, and fluids. They stood up into the night…
.
.
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For the rest of the story, please see Under the Wing by O.G. Rose, available on Amazon in both Paperback and Kindle.
