Fever

2262

My skin burned. I felt like every touch, every piece of cloth or stone or fingers was amplified. I shivered even though I was sweating through my dingy clothes.

Mama never left my side. I was in and out of sleep, but she was always there when my eyes opened.

She pressed a damp cloth to my forehead. It was cool and rough. She whispered quiet words I couldn’t understand in this haze. I think I understood deep down though.

“mama…” I could barely make it out. I don’t know what’s real or not anymore.

Her hands trembled, but she tried to keep steady. Brushing my tangled mess of hair away from my face.

The world narrowing her voice, the taste of broth, the sharp sting of fever dreams.

When I woke again, I saw her tired smile and knew, that for this moment, the dark wasn’t endless.

During the fever haze, I saw a life that didn’t exist. Her hand on my forehead was the only thing that felt real.

The Game

2263

Mama always tried to make this small basement seem bigger. She called it a game, but it was more like magic. We all would sit closely, those that wanted to play. The others would sleep or the empty spaces of girls that were taken away. Their spots like missing teeth.

The only light from the cracks at the top of the wall, the cracks in the door where the guards are stationed above. It was a sliver of light, but it was enough.

Mama’s voice was soft, steady and warm. A heartbeat in this dark quiet place. “Listen. There are names, places, things that don’t belong down here. If you forget them, we get lost.” She smiled as she told us tales of what’s above.

Rivers that run like snakes and mountains that touch the sky. Cities with towers so tall you can’t see the top and forests thick with trees and bushes, leaves whispering in the wind. Large fields spotted with bright colored flowers and the stars, winking above us, watching us in the night.

I tried to picture it all in my head, painted with colors I’ve never seen before. I let my imagination run wild. She would tell us names of places she’s visited, some where she would like to go explore. I kept stumbling over some of the names at first.

I tried to remember the shape of the words, how they felt on my tongue. She smiled and nodded at us. Proud when we would remember small details she had told us about.

Sometimes she would draw shapes in the dirt. We would copy her. Picking up broken pieces of bricks or concrete and draw along with her. Thick lines would be for rivers, squares or rectangles for buildings, dots for small things we might find along the way.

Sometimes instead of her telling stories about the world, she would have us tell the story. Making up the rest of the world while we are stuck down here. Letting our ideas bloom and expand with each others crazy ideas of what we might find.

This is really more than a game. This is what gave us our smiles, our fun, our hope.

Hope for a better future.

Even in the darkness of this damp stale basement, my mind can wander.

Maybe someday, my feet will get to follow.

She gave me the world. She made me remember places I had never seen, and believe I might get to see them someday.

Learning to Read

2263

She’s drawing on the floor again, but these aren’t the shapes and lines I’m used to seeing. These just look like squiggles to me. Mama told us that these are letters. They can become names, places, and the stories she tells us.

“Here,” she pointed “this is water.”

I sat next to her and traced the lines with my finger. Feeling the rough stone beneath the dirt. She made me say the word aloud. They always sound strange in my mouth at first, but I continue to repeat it.

“Water.” I said again.

I kept at it. With each new word she gave us, we would repeat it over and over. She would explain what it means and why it is important to know.

Every time we learned something new, there would be a glimmer in her eyes.

She’s teaching us so that we can live outside of this place.

She’s teaching us things the guards and this basement can never take away.

Each letter was a little spell. A shape with power. The basement had taken everything—but it couldn’t take the words from me.

Learning to Write

2263

Once we had all learned about words and how to say them, she said it was time to write them. We all gathered little pieces of concrete, stone, and brick and sat in a circle.

She started with the alphabet. We all copied what she wrote. It was just one letter, but she had us remember words that started with the letter. For A we wrote down Apple.

Our handwriting was terrible and we all giggled at our chicken scratch in the dirt.

“It’s not perfect, and will take practice. But it’s yours.” she smiled at us. Helping us hold the broken pieces better, so writing would be easier.

Each mark we made was a small rebellion against the guards looming above us.

Each mark a promise that even in the darkness, we could leave a trace.

I couldn’t change the basement. Couldn’t save the girls who vanished. But I could leave marks behind—proof that I had lived. That I had learned.

Even in the darkest days, when these cold walls seemed to close in tightly around us, when the silence pressed on us like a weight. Even then, I clung to the scraps of hope she gave me. The small piece of fabric I now use to tie back my hair, the soft humming that felt like a lullaby for broken souls, the steady counting that measured our losses and kept us tethered to time, and the stories she whispered. Painting beautiful worlds that were far beyond these four damp walls. All of these small things were like sparks in this endless dark cycle. Tiny lifelines that kept the shadows from swallowing us whole.

The basement was a cage, even with the hope she gave us. It’s a suffocating prison made of stone and silence. It was filled with pain and fear and that would still seep into our bones sometimes. Light rarely touched and every breath tasted of dust of despair.

She was the heart of this place. She was the quiet strength we all needed, but were afraid to ask for. She was who we wanted to become. Steady, fierce, unbreakable. One day we just stopped calling her, her. We all started to call her Mama or Mama Bear. I think it started because of one of the stories she told us. She was our protector, our guardian, just like the character from her story.

I think I called her that first, and it stuck. All the girls started to repeat it. Whispered from one frightened girl to the next, another small rebellion against the darkness. Every girl who came after called her the same. It’s how I always introduced her. She was the only one that ever fought like hell to keep us alive in this hellhole. The only one who ever stood tall against the cruelty of the guards and the world outside that wanted to crush us. Mama Bear is our shield. Our hope. The only reason any of us thought that one day, we might get to see the outside again.