Creative Writing: Daitane

I logged about two hours of sleep.

The moment I see the stars beginning to hide from the sun in shyness, their bright light going to shame against the even brighter sun, I am pulling out some clothes to take my last shower for who knows how long.

The warm sunshine gleams on my wall through the openings in the clouds as I close my drawer and stand up straight, walking briskly out of my small confinement and heading towards the bathroom. Daitane is already up, bathed, and making breakfast. How does he always manage to get up earlier than me?

"Mama still sleeping?" I ask politely, gripping my clothes to my chest.

Daitane just nods his head as he stirs the porridge, indicating that last night it still on his mind. I push the bathroom door open

The porridge is like glue. And not because Daitane isn't a good chef; his porridge is to die for. But the guilt gnawing at my heart also punishes my mouth. Mama notices my unusual silence, but makes no comment on it. Instead, we eat our breakfast in silence, only the sound of nature and the bustle of people outside to be heard.

The morning goes by drearily. As Mama stays in her room to do some work, Daitane and I are sneaking around, silently packing things we might need into backpacks. Neither of us feel like attending school. There's no point anyways.

By the time afternoon has rolled around, Daitane and I have hidden in the bathroom as Mama comes out of her room, grabs her basket and hat, and leaves the house. As she walks out of our range of sight from the window, Daitane and I grab our backpacks and pull our boots on. I place our letter to Mama into the stove. We wrote it at the last minute for her. It reads:

"Do you feel bad doing this?" I ask my brother

"Do you feel bad doing this?" I ask my brother. "Even though it's to help me not - you know - die, I still feel

He immediately gasps and yanks me into the crowds by my arm, steering me through the people. I stumble along, trying to keep my footing until he comes to an abrupt stop, glancing over his shoulder.

"Who was that?" I breathe, slipping my backpack up onto my shoulders where it had slipped off.

"My teacher," he responds, still searching for the owner of that male voice. "I don't know if he knew for sure that it was me or not."

"Why is he in the market?" I question. It doesn't make sense. He should be up at the farm house teaching. I hope he didn't see us!

"He comes down here before class to grab us water when it is humid," Daitane wipes some sweat off of his forehead. "Come on."

I follow him to the edge of town. Five figures seem to be lounging around on the bridge, and Daitane moves forward with no hesitation to greet them. I hesitate. Our meeting last night had felt cold. Only Breke and Muydurn at least tried to be kind. Wakawi and I have had grudges against each other ever since we were paired for a challenge. It resulted in a tree catching fire.

Poyna seems...okay. She goes with Muydurn, so they must be close. And Zeknan. I got the cold shoulder from him, and I have never even met him in my life. At least, I don't think so - or maybe that memory has faded away.

This is