Tabula Rasa

We started with clothing. Lightweight, breathable, earth tones. Nothing that would slow us down, anything that could easily blend into the ever-changing terrain if we needed it to. Choosing was hard. I wanted to pack my favourite sweater, but my father told me it would take up too much precious space. I hated that we had to leave again. Every time, they tell me and every time I am devastated about it. I sigh and put the sweater back on the shelf. After the clothes had been chosen, or begrudgingly set aside, we moved on to supplies. Nothing perishable, again nothing too heavy, and certainly nothing that held a smell. Nothing that made it easier for them to track us. “Are you ready?” My father whispered. We nodded. We knew the drill. Every few months, it was the same and every few months he still asked us if we were ready. Truth was, we were never ready. Since the war, we hadn’t stayed still for longer than 93 days. That was the record. For years they had been trying to wipe us out. It filled my parents with fear, but sometimes I wished they would let them find us. At least it would be over. The upheaval, the struggle, the antagonising desperation to find a safe space to hide us long enough for this battle to be over. It was two in the morning. The sky was a deep, dense black, a frosting of stars offered us little light in the deserted streets, but darkness was what we needed to remain part of the shadows. As always, we shuffled in side-step, my father first, myself second, my mother third. At the end of every building, we held our breath, crouched low to the ground, and ran as fast as we could to the next wall. We pushed on. After an hour I was starting to get tired, I always flagged after the first hour. It was time to break into the first round of rations. As we sat on the floor to open our backpacks, there was a break in the stark silence. “Hold on, hold on!” A vicious whisper erupted from my father’s mouth, “I hear something.” He peered around the corner as a single gunshot drowned out my senses. I watched on while his head flew backwards in a sea of ruby waves. “DAD!” I screamed into the dark. My mother grabbed my arm and threw her palm over my mouth, holding hostage the exclamations that were pushing their way forth. “Come on, come one, we have to move now.” With her hand glued to my mouth, my mother twisted my arm upwards so I stood with a squeal, tears pouring from my eyes. She forced me back the way we came and we shot down an alleyway, diving into a deep stoop and buried ourselves in the rubble. We sobbed hollow, mournful cries, and we shook in one another’s arms. The ground trembled. Then we heard them.