Ainae Nielsen

JOHARI

The only strength I had left was holding my necklace together. One of the last pieces of Papa leaves marks of resistance on my hands, kissing every part of my calloused skin gasping for air. The harsh screams glue my eyes shut, and no matter how hard I fight it, the same memory plays in my head over and over again; Papa kisses me goodnight and asks me, “What do you think the world is made up of?” He smells like tears and decay, and his face is full of agony as if he knew something I didn’t. I smiled and said, “Papa, the world is just like you.” He fixes his face to smile and tucks me in, leaving the door cracked for only a stream of light to gleam into my room—one foot in front of the other, his loud thumps fade. I can hear faint whispers of his weeping. Time passes, and my room is filled with the calming screams of cicadas. I slowly shut my eyes and soon found myself embraced with a cold wind, left in the rain with his Heart-shaped locket trembling in my hands. Alone. Cold. Confused. That was four years ago.