The Black Field

Have you ever heard of the famine in Ireland? A young girl dictates the unfortuante events of her life during the time; about the tragic, gory death of her brother and the pain she endures. Venture on a journey through the life of one of the forgotten Irish victims.


1. Pain

It’s been a week since my dry mouth has had the pleasure of simply touching anything consumable. On the first day the suffering was bearable, just the simple aching of my stomach, but by the third day I felt what can only be described as numbness. I lay here; no different from a corpse, reflecting and reminiscing on the years I’ve been privileged to experience. If I close my tired eyes, and thing, I find myself back in 1844 when all was as it should be.

I remember running with Michael, running, seems like such an impossible thing now. We often played on our farm, visiting each animal as we went along. I loved the horses the most, their long manes, their elegant stance, it seemed I could not find fault in them. But I found greatest pleasure in riding these magnificent beasts. The feeling of wind brushing my hair, the unison of the horse and I, simply riding. At the time Michael was only four, just about as tall as the horse’s shin. Such a small lad, so young to. It may seem cruel and a blasphemous thing to say, but I’m glad he never lived till his fifth birthday. I wouldn’t have been able to bear watching him suffer as we are. His cries of hunger would have shredded what’s left of my heart. Though my opinion is so, I still miss him dearly. I see him in my dreams, smiling, calling for me. I wake up with tear stains on my pillow, well, at least I used to, it seems my tear ducts have no water left. Another privileged I’ve lost, crying, one would have never thought such a thing could be missed.

It’s happening again. I have this agonising, crippling pain every so often. Each time I curl up in a ball, trying to cry out but only wheezing sounds emerge from my mouth. I can’t talk, I can’t cry, I can’t move, I can’t hope. All that’s left to keep me company is my new friend despair; he and I have become quite close this week. I wish to sleep, to fall into a deep slumber never to wake up. But I always wake up, despite my best efforts. I’ve given up on trying sleeping, because in every dream the scene of Michael’s death keeps playing over and over again. I can’t bear it. The blood, his screaming, witnessing such a thing isn’t worth a second of sleep, although I still seem to desire nothing else.

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