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Heaving a heavy sigh, I return to work, avoiding the chittering insects that have made their way back inside. They’re mostly harmless, though I do worry about them destroying Mother’s clothing.
For somebody so disorganized, she does have high standards of cleanliness. When I leave even a single wrinkle in her bed, she scolds me for it. She’s gotten used to the idea of living among the wilds… it’s the sacrifice we make, living on the outskirts like this.
I remember her warm smile and her tight embrace. The truth is, we haven’t been very close lately.
Looking back to the cavern entrance, she has left, probably searching for food in the desert. I wish I could accompany her, but I can’t leave the cavern until I’ve finished my chores.
I hum a quiet melody to myself, imagining Warren’s contented smile. With the accompaniment of music, everything becomes so much less stressful.
“There,” I say to nobody in particular. “All done.” I’ve formed a pile of clothing on the bed, atop the folded sheet.
Not a single wrinkle is left on the surface of the sheets or in the folded garments. I estimate that I spent about thirty minutes today completing that task.
It brings me a solid sense of accomplishment.
But looking up at myself in the mirror, barely illuminated in the dim cavern, I see how long and disheveled my hair is. I wipe it out of my eyes frantically, even tearing strands from my tangled split ends. Becoming aware of it, I realize how it weighs on the back of my skull and how uncomfortable it feels, knotting together like this.
I can’t go out like this. Mother will just have to wait a little longer.
I know I’m not alone, but I feel isolated down here sometimes.
My smell is unpleasant to me. I wonder what Mother would think if she saw me like this… unkempt and intolerable to be around.
I bring the pail with me, along with some herbs and wood ash lying on the wooden dresser next to the totem. Walking into the deeper recesses of the cavern, my bare feet irritated by the coarse and inconsistent texture of the rock beneath me, I prepare myself.
First, I cover myself with the herbs and the wood ash, getting into every nook and crevice. Then I carefully pour the water over my body, trying to loosen the herbs from my flesh that now fill my nostrils with their pleasing aroma. As the water rushes over me, my hair falls out over my eyes, reaching my waist.
With what remains of the herbs, I lather my damp hair, attempting to remove the unruly bunches and knots.
By the time I’m done, I have enough left in my pail for a decent drink. I’m sure if I chiseled through the ceiling, I’d find where the roots are obtaining their water, but I’ve been reluctant to do it. The risk of the cavern collapsing is very real.
I feel refreshed now, not quite so wretched. I can dry myself off in the desert if I just hack my way through the vines again.
Carrying myself up the hard rock slope, I look out into the distance, spying the illuminating glow of Warren, who smiles at me in the cavern depths. Her hair glows bright yellow, her eyes beacons of blue. She always portrays such wisdom.
She’s there for me in the toughest times.
Reaching the bed, I set the pail down once more, looking down sadly at the dried skeletons of chirops that litter the floor. I’ve done whatever I can to survive. But this cavern’s natural resources are not a good source of food.
I bring my foot down, snapping on the bones of one of the chirops. The skeletal wing breaks free, and I grab it, taking care not to cut myself with it.
The green vines that cover the cavern entrance are hard like a tendon. Cutting through them is always tremendously difficult for me.
I pierce the soft exterior of one of the thicker vines. I figure, if I can pierce it hard enough, I might be able to make a hole large enough for me to fit my body through. Brown juices flow out from the vines, and I wonder if, in desperation, I might be able to drink them. I haven’t studied these plants exhaustively.
It’s almost unbelievable that anything could grow in this immense heat.
They can’t, I think, smiling to myself.
But the more I poke and prod into the vines, the more sunlight begins to flow through the cavern entrance. My arm tires from the constant stabbing.
I wonder if vines have thoughts. Do these vines feel pain? Am I killing them?
Finally penetrating a big enough hole into the vines, I step over the sinuous plants, the overwhelming heat searing me and reminding me of my immense thirst and hunger. I catch a full view of the desert, then collapse into the sand.
I can feel it burning me.
I begin to remember my mother, lying dead on the ground, bleeding into the sand. I remember my sense of helplessness as one by one, I watched them take her from me.
