Caipirinha

Perfect white silk is spun over rotting hay and senescent support beams. Her homemade blankets will not only keep her warm but make a home of this putrefied shelter. Exiled together, at least they comfort each other. Though she will always have people concerned about her, watching out for her, this rundown barn will show her the ways of being forgotten. She will be safe here. And finally, she will be valued. Perhaps she will drive down the local wood-eating insect population. Some would say that her species is an unnecessary evil, but this tenement will teach her otherwise. She has a place here. The hustle and bustle of the favelas with their ungrateful occupants drove her out into the mountains, and although she came here willingly, imagining it to be for the best, about her former abode she still thinks, I wish I was there.

Her name is Fera; at least that’s what she goes by. It refers to something “wild” in Latin, and her full name means something far worse in Greek. It appears she was born to be alone, out of place like a stone in the air, and the people wholeheartedly agree. They smack and shoe her away. This is her fate. She doesn’t want to hurt them. She likes all the same things they do: to be warm, to eat, to live, to sleep, to build things and travel and dance and be at peace. And of course she knows the rules of mutual benefit. Fera would do her share around the house and keep out of everyone’s way. But it wasn’t enough. She will never be enough. But why should they care?

Only humans could be so callous: their feet in the sand, but still freezing cold. Fera may be ugly on the outside, but nature finds them ugly for what’s within. The people call Fera creepy for the way she stealthily moves around. They claim to simply see it in her face—not just the odd ones she makes. Maybe they hate her, maybe they fear her. Certainly, they don’t quite know why. If she had the terrifying power they think she does, they would burn her alive. Even without so much as touching them, Fera is subjected to the shadows. Still… I wish I was there.

Never will she truly be welcomed back. Though some do accept her with open arms and minds, she will never know who to trust. Her defenses must remain up. Back home, she could never dance. She can see them dancing now without her. How could they possibly know that she likes to dance too? Why should they care?

Every time she thinks about them, they fall further out of her mind. This is where a paradoxical truth comes out… She wants them to see her. If only in their peripheral vision, she wants a spot in their thoughts. Unnoticed is likely unharmed, but what is so strange about a tiny creature craving consideration and love? She’s only young. I wish I was there.

Ultimately, Fera needs to be more than an eyesore. She needs to be seen for her intentions and judged by more than her color or the size of her abdomen. If only they had better assumptions. Surely her presence could prove positive. Oh I wish I was there.

Tormented for showing too much skin, ostracized for “unruly” patches of “unnatural” hair. They even criticized the look in her eyes. They were disgusted when she inevitably retreated into corners. They claimed that her humble web of coping mechanisms is made of lies. Those people just couldn’t see the good in her. The only mercy Fera ever received was the temporary promise not to be squashed. And we all know humans and their promises. I wish I was there, but they really don’t care.

Rainy nights, soggy days. If they didn’t bother, neither would she. At least this was on her own terms. No more them. This is it—all there is. It can be hard for a little soul like Fera to wrap her head around. I only wish I was there.

In the same way she had evaded predators when she found herself prey, now she throws her hardy ropes around wildly and dances the darkness away. Jazz music plays in her head. This home has been good to her. She finds her footing in the attic, nonchalantly gliding over gaps, spinning in the air, placing her rope carefully to pull off the final act. She takes a drink, pretending that it’s something more special than water, something stronger, with sugar and lime. Her hips never cease that beautiful sway. It’s magic. It’s so happy and light, almost tragically bright. The melody surfs along with her. There’s no such thing as a minor key. The life of a blackened ballerina—meant to be. So she struts back on her toes with a twirl. Head up, arms down; she’s finally doing it—giving it a whirl. It’s happening. Music and magic. She skips forward, ready to leap. In a moment, Fera will swing all throughout the barn, fully relaxed, finally at peace. That’s how they’ll find her. And they always find her. But this time, they won’t be able to reach her. Forever will Fera be free. She prepares to jump, rope in hand. The crescendo. It’s unclear when she will land. But here I am.

And with the smooth rope securely attached, she hangs there ominously like they do after a long drop, her neck cleanly broken.