1ASHA
My Name Is Asha. It means Hope.
The pain in my hands lingered, as if the fire stayed in my veins. I do not grow numb from it. I have just learned to abide by the pain. But there is no escape. Sometimes the flames would heat up, the pain growing, if possible.
This was such a night.
After a tedious day of weaving, trying to stay awake in the cold barely lit room of the factory and fighting to keep the pain from increasing, my hands had curled into rigid claws. I was not able to move them, but I hugged them close to my chest as if by doing so the pain would subside.
I wished my body was warmer, maybe it could help. In the cramped sleeping quarters, one would've thought that there was great body heat. But everyone was emaciated, all hips and bones. I wished for sleep, but the cold hard floor would not grant me that escape. I wished for an angel. I hoped.
I was sold to this factory life by my parents. They were poor and kept having too many children. I was just a burden, another mouth to feed.
The day the dealer bought me, I had woken up at the crack of dawn. My mother was ignoring the babies and my father was AWOL. My mother ushered me to the front of the house where my dad was waiting with man. The stranger looked at me, speculative, his eyes boring through my head. He shifted his eyes to my hands. After a tense moment, he nodded curtly to my parents. The money changed hands and I saw my mother sigh relief. I was going and there would be something to eat for today. I could see the money being spent in her mind already.
The world seemed to blur then. My own parents had sold me, they didn't want me. They couldn't. There were others to think of, others to care about. They had cared about me, once upon a time. Now, they would cry if I came home, they would shout at me for making them feel guilty, they would make me wish I was not there. They had no other choice but to let me go, to force me into a life of toil in the factory. I once hoped they would change their mind. But that was it, I hoped.
The first time I saw the grey, dilapidated building that was the factory, I was huddled in the back of a truck with other urchins like me. I remember the bloodshot eyes, filled with dread. Their faces gaunt and fearful, their mouths hanging slack. Innocent. Had I looked like that?
The truck had rambled to the dirty path in front of the building. We were jostled in the back. I searched for signs of life in the windows and a face stared right back at me.
Her face was so prominent framed by the window. Her dark lank hair lay limp, the shadows under her eyes purple and bruise like. Her cheekbones were jutting out, the skin stretched over the bones. But it was the eyes that would haunt my nightmares. Those black orbs - emotionless, bleak, cold. Dead.
I had shuddered when she stared at our group as we entered the factory. Then, her face, those eyes, seemed to multiply, reflected at everyone else's in the room with her. So different from the people's on our group. Dead. Blank. Hopeless.
The next few days after that introduction, my life had become a harsh, painful but monotonous pattern. On the third day my fingers were so full of blisters that my hands were unmovable. I was punished for that. The work needed to be good, satisfactory. The threads should be perfect, the pattern flawless. My hardened fingers would bend so agonizingly I would bite my chapped lip to keep myself from crying out. Sometimes I would blunder and they would make me work harder, more torturously.
All of us would sit on the cold hard floor, our backs stiff so we were uncomfortable, as to not fall asleep in the murky factory room. No one would talk; no one would even catch anyone's eye. The hopelessness did that.
Sometimes I would cry at night, just so I could grow tired enough that I could sleep. On those nights, I would think of running away and that made me sad. Bitter. Hopeful.
When I dream, I don't dream of home. I dream of freedom. I dream of an angel.
She is dressed in all white and she always has a smile for me. Her fingers were soft and white, not a scratch on them. Her hair is dark and her eyes are loving.
She would hold me close, murmur sweet verses in my ear. Comfort me. Mother me. Love me.
I dream of an angel. She's going to take me up to the castle in the sky, where I don't have to sit on the floor with my back straight as a rod just to keep awake. The windows would be great with the sunshine streaming through. The rooms would be open, bright and warm.
My angel will tuck me in when I sleep, where my bed won't be the cold hard ground but the softest feathers, the warmest sheets with the silk voice of my angel serenading me to sleep.
She would protect me from my captors, she would fight my fears and she would kiss my tears away. She would not let my eyes drop another tear.
She will be my home because she's my escape.
But she is just a dream. A dream that will never come true. I am stuck here, abandoned, unwanted and insignificant. No one will rescue me and my guardian angel is but hope. She will exist in my dreams but I live in reality; in pain; in tears; hopelessness.
My name is Asha. There is no Hope.
A/N:Um, short explanation for this. It was a CSPE (Civil Social and Political Education) project, concerning the "Letter to President Obama" letter competition of Concern. I wrote this for that but didn't win or something. I handed it up as my short story in English too and it was one of the better ones and got a prize from the teacher, so I hoped itd be okay to put it up here. Okay, that's my lil story. haha. visit my site, I Can't Seem To Stop Myself From Laughing Out Loud
Epic_Dreamer
Take care my loves,