The Colour of Hunger
A woman began to sing as she sat in a tarnished wooden seat. Singing was all she could do now to take away the gnawing pain. Each heartbeat, chilled whisper, and transparent movement throbbed at her lifeless stomach. The emptiness inside was excruciating, she was no longer herself. A coloured cloth washed in bleach and squeezed dry to lose its identity. A bullet had been shot right through her stomach, a black hole and there was now no way to fill it.
In the distance the sound of a child crying pierced through the air. In order to blanket the sound, she sang louder hoping the melody would camouflage the infant's pure cry of innocence. The feeling of hopelessness darkened her spirit. The song had lost its vibrance; the colour in the music was gone. Her terror was multiplied, thickened by a feeling of helplessness.
She arose and followed the distant child’s cry. His face was blue, his spirit was still. He lay in the crib, his small pale body once smelling of sour milk and golden yeast now smelt void of life. Colourless. A shell.
The woman looked toward the golden sun streaming with embers of hope, and yet inside her everything was black. She was like a charcoaled tree where fire had ravaged its green foliage. The mother was barren. There were no tears of sadness, a weakness so strong that it took away any remembrance of life. Everything was white, annulled of life. An empty canvas. The sorrow of nothing.
In the distance the sound of a child crying pierced through the air. In order to blanket the sound, she sang louder hoping the melody would camouflage the infant's pure cry of innocence. The feeling of hopelessness darkened her spirit. The song had lost its vibrance; the colour in the music was gone. Her terror was multiplied, thickened by a feeling of helplessness.
She arose and followed the distant child’s cry. His face was blue, his spirit was still. He lay in the crib, his small pale body once smelling of sour milk and golden yeast now smelt void of life. Colourless. A shell.
The woman looked toward the golden sun streaming with embers of hope, and yet inside her everything was black. She was like a charcoaled tree where fire had ravaged its green foliage. The mother was barren. There were no tears of sadness, a weakness so strong that it took away any remembrance of life. Everything was white, annulled of life. An empty canvas. The sorrow of nothing.
Copyright Caitlin Burns 2010