She Killed: A Narrative Fiction

There while the boy cried hunched over his tiny, fragile brother another girl cried far away on the other side of town. When it stormed, the sky’s cries are heard throughout the place, echoing loudly in every crook and nanny. While the thunder was deep roar, the cries of the little girl were bleak unable to be heard over the loud sobs of the rest of them. They didn’t know the agony behind every tear that spilled from her eyes. While the tears spilled from her eyes, she knew there was not a comforting arm around her to hold her and keep her steady, balanced and rooted with the rest of them. And she knew there wouldn’t be. They blamed her, they always did and this time had been no different and all the little girl wanted to do was rip her heart

open to show to them that she too had feelings. But she didn’t. She didn’t demand the comforting hug of someone who truly loved her because she knew there would none. And she knew there were chances this would be their last straw.
The nine year old knew that whatever would happen from now on would never be stopped because the one who truly cared was gone, dead.

Her Ma. Ma was always the one who protected her, took the brunt of the fall that she should’ve received and now that she was gone no one could help her now. And deep down she knew there would not anyone now who would ever care for her. Her sister had already been married and she hadn’t seen her in two years now and her brother, her protector¬¬¬—at least should be—wouldn’t dream of supporting her. He idolized their father too much to even dream about helping her, about supporting her and sticking up for her. Her brother didn’t love her. The nine year old had no doubts about this. But what she did know for a fact was that her sister’s love for her was like the rotten brown magnolia flowers in the flower garden. There was love for her from her sister but hesitant, stained with the whispers of the people around

her.
But none of this hurt as much as knowing that the one person who loved her unconditionally was gone and left. And she couldn’t help but blame herself. From since she was at least two years old her father had shown nothing but hatred toward her. She had wanted to know and that became the start of the insults that headed her way. He called her bad luck, a witch for the horrid that happened to this family after she was born.
He would always yell, “You don’t care about and that’s why you do this.”
She wanted to yell back that she did, that the words that left his mouth bruised her regardless how many times they were repeated.

She wanted to show him her heart and let him see for himself the cuts, scratches and bruises tainting her heart. She wanted to scream that she did care but she held it all back. Why? Because she could see Ma’s disappointed face, her head shaking sternly. Ma would tell her that one day they would for what she was worth, gold. But the only thing was that she couldn’t see the love and possibly there was none for her.
Everyday when she could, she would walk to where to where the bleeding tree stood and then search for the graveyard flowers. The flowers gave her hope that just like them she would find happiness someday. The cotton field not too far away was the place she sat and stared at the sky in hopes of finding of some way out of the pain she lived in. But as she grew older she was constricted to the four walls of her house, to cook, clean and take care of the rest of the family. Every night, she stared at the sky, thought of the flowers and decided. She deserved the same happiness that the other girls received, playing, jumping into their father’s arms when they came home from a long day of work. She decided the only way to find happiness was give up to the harsh future that lie ahead of her and hope to be bloomed again with endless happiness at her

hands.
The twelve year old lay within the almost dead graveyard flowers, crimson stained around her. But, nevertheless, a smile graced her face.