My Treasure

Twisted, scarred and swollen with age, he gripped the paper ball from the hole in the cottonwood tree and unfurled each krinkle. A nearby starling mourned over the ten men drawn and quartered at his feet. Brushing back the sweat, his cobalt eyes narrowed to make out a few words scratched in blood:

Dear Santa,

I know being fifteen might be a little old to be writing to you, but since we no longer have access to the internet anymore, I figured you would want an update as to why you should never visit this country again. Or at least for the next 50 years until things are finally safe again.

Since we stopped having winters, it’s been heat, heat, and more heat. Today, the morning blew a new layer of dust on the windshield as my mom’s sedan shuddered to stop outside the cornfield. I pulled on my old swimming goggles, surgical mask and N95 mask into place just like mom taught me. Today was another scout mission for food, but I knew most of the crops that could have survived this week were probably already contaminated by whatever biochemical weapon the new government released in the name of population control. Our neighbors told us last week’s special was blueberries with a side of something called “cyclospora” which mom says is some kind of parasitic infection. And if you can’t pay for treatment or a cure, it’s either suffer the illness and hope it passes or it’s a bullet to the head.

….Just kidding.

…..But not really.

After the successful attack on the Capitol on January 6th, chaos ensued in all heavily populated areas. With the help of the Proud Boys and other Alt-Right groups, the New Aryan government took control and reported only to the sound of their beloved dictator. Their new and only interest was to scale resources to serve only those who had been healthy, able-bodied and who “reflected New Aryan values.” Hitler would have been proud, I guess.

Those who had access to guns made well use of them and those who did not, like me, either fled to the unpopulated countryside or stayed to #protest from the grave. #RIP.

The sun peeked through the six foot crop a pretty gold that would have given most Instagram models the exotic fake tan they craved that was pretty much forbidden now. Mom says I have to stay out of the sun as much as possible to preserve the lightness of my skin. Even if I am a shade lighter than her, I personally don’t see the point since we both have black hair and gold skin anyway, but whatever I guess. It’s not like there’s too many people around here who would catch us for existing anyway. I grabbed the first cob I could reach and tore the husk open to see if it was edible. The consistency was just right. The kernels were firm and the color was a bright cream. I re-wrapped the husks around the cob, protecting my new treasure.

“Mom!” I shouted, struggling through the double layer mask and clutching the cob close to my chest. The wind gusted another layer of dust from the west, running away from the sun. I heard a shuffle about 200 feet in front of me followed by a pop and a gurgle. I’m sure you could hear the deafening beats my heart gave all the way to the North Pole. With every footstep that crunched closer, I could feel the fear forming a noose around my lungs waiting for my final beat to drop with the next pop. I crouched lower into the roots, sliding into a nearby blanket of dead stalks and dirt. My head poked through so I could just make out the shadow of boots heading towards me. While I prayed, the wind gusted once more and a wave of dry soil whipped past my goggles. Then, when I was sure I was about to die, I saw it. The tiniest glint of light winking in my direction and I felt the hum of my long dead father’s voice saying, “Don’t worry, Pangga. Everything is going to be ok.”

“I’m coming, Dad. Hang on,” I mouthed behind my masks. There was a thud next to my face and another voice grumbling above me. I honed in enough to make just make out that it was an older man’s voice.

“Damn thieving jungle cats these days just don’t know when to quit and get gone!” he grumbled with the slick twang of Tennessee. “ Well boys, it’s time to move out and check the south field!” He built up a strong load of tobacco and saliva before shooting the spit into the ground, inches from my face. I waited until the thudding of boots dulled into the distance before peeking out from my hiding place. My goggles began to fog as the tears started to swell in my eyes. I knew what that gurgle meant. Peeling off my goggles, I squinted hard in the direction where the winking light came from. Now it glared at me like a beacon.

I could not be alone. Especially not now. My mom knows-- knew—how to survive. Not me!

I made my way toward the light, pushing aside my dad's words as I felt the pit in my stomach sink deeper in spirals. When I finally reached for the light next to my mother's body, I clasped my hand around it. My other hand dropped the corn cob as I brushed the dirt out of my gloved fist. Inside was a golden heart shaped locket, with three diamonds in a row on the inlay, lined by laurel leaves. I opened the inside to find a picture of an Aryan man standing next to woman holding a baby girl. Both women with dark hair and bright golden skin.

The inscription on the back read, “Mga Kamayanan Ko” which roughly translates to “My Treasures.”

I blinked back the confusion as I reeled several thoughts at once. The man I knew as my father, the man who raised me, was NOT Aryan.

MY DAD WASN’T A SELFISH MURDERER.

Was this supposed to be my Christmas miracle? What, you couldn’t send a care package of clean food and water? Or maybe a way for all of us to escape?!

I guess I should thank you. Hope you enjoy my gift in return.

-P.