That's all it is, repetitive. Get up, scream, try and get the awful image out of my mind. I never do, but it is always worth a shot, always worth a try. Then pulling my dress over my head, the material scratching my delicate skin as I pull it over my body, flattening out the creases and wrinkles as best as I can with worn hands, worn from hours of work. My hands shouldn't be this cracked and broken. I'm only a 15 year old girl, not a 24 year old man who has to provide for his family. Yet they are broken and I don't know how they got this way. In my dreams i'm always running and falling and pulling ropes that make my hands bleed and picking things out of the ground. That would make my hands ware... but, I don't do any of that stuff. Do I?
I shake my head softly and walk out, seeing all the men going to work. all of them, one after another going out and hunting to feed their families, while the boys go and train to be soldiers and us girls stay at home with our mothers. Washing, cooking cleaning, because we don't matter as much as the boys do. We cannot fight like boys do. We are too 'weak' too 'vulnerable'. We are just here to be forced into marriage and to have children. To have boys.
It's my turn soon. I'm engaged to a boy in the village whom I've spoken to once in my short life. I am not ready to become his bride, his wife, a mother. I cannot do it. I am of fifteen years of age, and you are telling me this is old enough to look after a house hold and children? Well you would be wrong. A woman runs through the village, her feet slapping on the dusty grass as she runs. She's screaming. Shouting "WHITE MEN, THE WHITE MEN ARE COMING!" There is a deathly silence. It was so quiet you could hear the gazelles jumping in the long grass and the way their hooves landed delicately on the ground beneath them.
Then there was uproar.
People grabbing all they could carry and running. Running for their lives. Running from the White Men who we all feared so much yet knew so little about. If only people would listen to me, then they would know more. But I am but a little girl with a 'wild imagination'.
I could hear my father yelling my name and my mothers behind me, I knew he was safe, so I kept running. I ran and ran and ran, hearing the clink of chains and the screams of women and the shouts of men behind me. Men were trying to fight back, as they were taught to be warriors, fight for their tribe, their village, their family, themselves. Yet they were no match for the White Men.
The White Men with their whips that cut into skin like knives and chains which keep people together like a pack of dogs. Treated like animals.
I turn around and see my father. His head was down and he looked down at the ground as they locked the metal ring around his neck, and the leg irons on his ankles. He didn't fight back. He didn't see the point. Breathing in shakily I call out "FATHER! FATHER!" He looks up, his eyes bloodshot. They widen "RUN,PLEASE JUST RUN! PLEASE GET AWAY FROM HERE!" my father calls out and he shouts as he gets whipped for giving me the warning. My bare feet slap the ground as I run as fast as I can, tears blurring my vision. I ran and ran and ran. Turning my back on the only man I've ever loved.