Her cries were music to the dead, sorrow for the living.
Her cries were music to the living, sorrow for the dying.
Thanksgiving 2011: The day they came ghostly face to face.
Wind: Welcome, sister.
Nikki: W-where am I? She slightly stuttered, voice full of confusion and sorrow.
Wind: Trapped in a limbo between life and death. Her centuries wise eyes showed signs of weariness. What happened moments before you arrived here?
Nikki: We were devouring thanksgiving dinner (Wind's face assumed an expression equivalent to that of an axeman being fed a sour lemon), when I went into my bedroom, my uncle was in there. He had drunk too much at the party, and not eaten enough, I think. There was a voracious look on his face. The last thing I remember was his palm hitting my cheek. Everything went black.
(Wind stared tactfully at the hexapod on the gravestone spinning his own cocoon of truth and lies, pretending not to have noticed the stars that seemed to have escaped from the black depths of Nikki's eyes.)
(Nikki seemed to realize that in her angst, she had been rude and ignorant of her equitable
Nikki: What about you, how have you arrived in this dark, damp, desolate place?
Wind: My dear friend, I arrived nearly the same way you did. A betrayal of trust. Come with me.
(Nikki inferred that all people trapped in this "limbo with life and death" could also be omnipresent. She had not moved, yet appeared in from of a cramped cave.)
Wind: Well, don't just stand there, come inside.
(The interior of the cave was startling. Instead of being cramped and claustrophobia inducing, it was bright and airy, the walls covered with omniscient, panoramic paintings. They were old and weathered, yet so full of wisdom.)
Wind: Aren't they beautiful? My father and brothers had made them. They spilled their own blood to to make sure our story isn't lost in the labyrinth called time, to make sure it was immortalized. You asked about how I died? About four centennials ago, the white man came to our shores. They were very strange. Their skin was like the fresh blood of a rabbit on newly fallen snow.I ran eagerly out to greet them with my father and the chief of our tribe. In the front was a very beautiful young male, about two decades old. A decimate of days later, their white skin turned blue, and their rosy cheeks sagged. My entire family went to give them food, help them build shelter, and I personally taught them how to bury fish to fertilize the crops. We didn't speak their language, so we communicated using pictures. With the help of those beautiful pictures, I became friends with the beautiful boy. I learned that he wanted to be a merchant, and had a marvelous singing voice. Ahh, his singing, rumbling in that strange language of his, it used to make me lose all the equilibrium my mind ever held. He was omnivorous, but preferred plants over animals, as though the sight of every dead animal tortured him. Everything changed one bright, clear afternoon. The white men seemed to decide that we were a waste of valuable space and resources. And without warning, they marched into our tribe and slaughtered every man, woman and child. You won't see that on the paintings, as my father and brothers were one of the first dead. I found myself face-to-face with my companion, my friend, my love. His eyes didn't contain a decimal of the compassion I knew he had. Unblinkingly, he raised his sword, rusty, dull, but well crafted. The last thing I saw was black, just like you. I learned that I could watch the world from here, so I watched them. The white men were celebrating, and I saw him stuffing his face with massive amounts of meat and then kissing a white girl with a pretty face and drab dress full on the mouth. I had never felt that mortified. But I kept watching. The white men were a pandemic, vermin infecting the red men, slowly, but painfully killing them all. A few natives of this country were even more unlucky and forced west, some fortunate enough to have horses or wagons, but most were pedestrians. Eventually, the foreigners kicked them out of their new dwellings too. And the day that was almost the turning point in the history of the blood diamond called America is celebrated, not as a memorial for those that lost their lives, but for the false story taught to them as children, where the natives of the country and the pilgrims all had a big party and lived happily ever after.