| Letters in Her Head |
[25 Oct 2005|05:29pm] |
Dear Devon,
No matter how long we’re stuck in this place – no matter how many bad things happen -- I always try to keep my chin up. I say to myself, “Hannah, it doesn’t do a bit of good to feel sorry for yourself, so just be grateful you’re alive.”
Sometimes, when that doesn’t work, I say, “Hannah, you’re gonna feel awfully dumb about this when the rescuers get here. You’ll have to tell ‘em you didn’t believe they were gonna come through. And how's that gonna sound?”
When things get really desperate, I say, “Hannah, you know it’s bad news to feel hopeless, because when your brain stops thinking you’re gonna get through it, there’s nothing left to convince your body to keep on keepin’ on.”
I tell myself a lot of things to get by. I believed them more when I had somebody else to tell ‘em to.
There’s a bin outside the bunkroom where we sleep. The demons put it there a couple days ago, and they filled it up with clothes. Used stuff that we can put on when our things gets worn out.
It didn’t take too long to figure out where the clothes came from. Some of ‘em looked kinda familiar. Add that up with the shovel brigade that leaves every morning, and you get ‘dead people’s hand-me-downs’.
At first you say to yourself how you’d never, ever wear it. Not in a million years. Not even if you had to run around naked instead. But the truth is, pride never got us a thing, except sick, electrocuted, beaten, or dead. So you suck it up and do what you gotta.
Sometimes people go looking for shoes. See, the mines are pretty hard on your feet. Sharp rocks poke through the rubber soles, and before you know it, a heel or even your toes are hangin’ out.
Also, there’s the cold to consider. At nighttime, after the sun goes down, it can get pretty chilly in the bunkroom. You’d give just about anything for a blanket, but somebody’s used coat will do in a pinch.
That’s what happened to me a little while ago. I’ve been getting extra cold at night. Ms. Fitzpatrick died from an asthma attack two days ago. I thought about how she’s only a little bigger than me, and went to see about her sweater.
Once I was out back, I started digging through. I didn’t get more than a few layers down before I found a denim jacket. It was real soft from being worn so much, and covered with lots of star-shaped patches. I knew as soon as I saw it that it was Rachel’s.
And that means she’s dead.
It’s my fault, too, Devon. There wasn’t a thing wrong with her, other than being scared stiff. Sometimes, when she got really worked up, we’d play this game to take her mind off it. You take turns naming what you miss most in the entire world.
You aren’t supposed to talk in the mines, but I did. I started that stupid game with her, because she looked so sad. Those demons heard us talking and they took her away. I never even saw her again.
She was supposed to be fifteen on Christmas day. Now she’s buried in a hole in the middle of the desert.
I climbed in the bin after that and started tossing clothes out. I didn’t stop ‘til the bottom, and I found every single piece that I knew was hers. That’s what I’m wearing until I’m found or I die, and that’s all there is to it.
I sleep under my cot now. Right on the cold, hard earth. That’s the only thing I can use for energy, and the only time when they aren’t looking. I don’t care if I end up puking my guts out, or passing out on my feet, or anything. I’m gonna outlive every single person in this camp.
They aren’t gonna get the best of me, like they stole the best of her.
Hannah
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