The World Without Flags

Only it’s not welcoming like sunlight. All those people dead. Eric on the edge of death. He and I fugitives from the only home I’ve known. I cringe when I remember the look of surprise and horror on Norman’s face when he thought I shot him. I feel the disgusting thud of striking him with the butt of my gun, how it shook my whole arm up to the shoulders. Then I see the aluminum mug next to me on the stall’s floor and I remember slapping Eric across the face and I blush hotly with shame. In all of our years together, Eric never once raised a hand on me, never once even threatened me. I blush even hotter. I feel sick with shame.

I breathe out slowly and tell myself that it won’t ever happen again. It was because I was exhausted, I tell myself. I lost my temper. It won’t happen again. But I’m scared of myself, scared of what I might do. I’ve never been scared of myself before. It’s a bad feeling, almost worse than the mistake itself.

I have to get up and move. I have to shake myself free of this guilt and shame.

I jump a little in place in my stall.

Bandit hears me moving and he neighs loudly. He’s hungry and needs to be fed. I’m relieved to have something to do. When I lead him outside, I see that it’s late afternoon. The sun is out and warm and the blue sky is filled with great puffs of cloud. The insects are so numerous, they’re like a haze over the golden fields. Taking advantage of them are swooping, darting barn swallows. I tie Bandit loosely to a fence post where there’s a lot of grass, and I watch him shake his mane and bend his neck down to eat. Then I look at the position of the sun. It’s strange for some reason. Shouldn’t it be night? It slowly comes to me that I must have slept much, much longer than I thought. No wonder Bandit was so hungry.

When I look back at the barn, another thought comes to me. It freezes me in place. Did Eric survive? Will I find him sprawled out dead on the floor? I remember his skeletal face and I start to tremble a little. I can’t think of what I would do without him. I’ll never forgive myself if the last thing I did was strike him in anger. I walk around outside a long time before I turn back toward the barn. I have to see. I have to know.

I walk slowly to Eric’s stall. It’s silent in the barn except for the chirping of swallows as they pass in and out through the barn doors. I don’t hear anything coming from Eric’s stall. I move to open it, but my hand stops. I have to prepare. If he’s dead, I have to be prepared. I try to tell myself that maybe it’s not the worst thing. If he’s dead, I could go back to the Homestead. I could apologize to them and hope they understand I did what I did for Eric. I could be safe and warm and not so hungry and exhausted all the time. And I did the best for him. I did everything I could. I begged for him.

But none of that makes me feel prepared.

When I think that I might open the stall door to the corpse of the only father I’ve ever known, I just don’t know if I can live without him. I try to open the stall, but again my hand freezes and I turn around and walk to the barn door nervously. I remember Eric long ago, before the Homestead, before the island, even before Lucia. I was so hungry then too.

I begin to tremble. I haven’t thought about any of this in a long time.

I was just a little girl, alone. I was starving. I found a can of food in a store, but I couldn’t open it. I remember smashing the can against the wall, trying to get it to open. Hitting the can with boards and trying to pierce it open with a screwdriver. I even tried to chew through it. Then Eric came in alone. At first, he walked right by me. He was holding a gun and he scared me. I tried to sneak out but I must have made a sound. When Eric heard me, he whirled around and shot. The sound was so loud that I was shocked and stunned motionless. Eric ran to me and asked me if I was hurt and told me he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to shoot. When he saw I wasn’t hurt, he took out his utility knife and opened the can of food. The smell of the food released me from my terror and I took the can. He watched me as I ate it, and I felt safe again. He has been with me ever since.

When I remember, I think to myself for the first time that Eric didn’t have to help me. I was a stranger. Did he do it just because he was a decent person? Was he lonely? Or did he just feel guilty that he almost shot a starving little girl? I don’t know why he did it. I don’t know why he saved me, why he looked after me. I don’t know why I’ve never wondered that before. I’m scared that I’ll never get to ask him. I’m terrified I’ll never get to thank him for it, and I’m ashamed I’ve never thought of thanking him, not once in all these years together. The regret twists in me like a knife.

I realize there’s no preparation for Eric’s death. There’s only pain.

I just have to do it.

I stride to the stall door and throw it open.