Brenda
Short Story
Brenda licks her wounds. Her skin had rubbed off from running across a forest turned hot with the chirping and flashing of flames. Still, Brenda found shelter in a metal shed that had been abandoned ages ago.
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She lives in an area that was almost a town. An almost-town made by people who tried building a life here. But she understands that people haven’t actually lived here in a long time. In her head, she imagines a disaster has happened, but she is not certain.
And Brenda doesn’t comprehend the way historical trauma operates on people, land, and animals. But she knows of pain and grief, and she can also sense a ghost. In our language, we call this ghost “history.” And in her mind, she tells herself different things about why this almost-town succumbed to a forest, which itself is succumbing to flames tonight.
And it’s her first time experiencing embers. So all she can do is lick her wounds along with all the other creatures who have to run barefoot across hurting lands. Of course, Brenda isn’t quite a human, so she doesn’t have the need to pray nor the words to pray with. And maybe that’s what makes her special. That she hasn’t learned to submit to something greater, the way we have. She just knows she’s scared, and that her body will heal with enough time, and that she will try again when the sun rises, which is what we’d call “tomorrow.”
She is hopeful. She hasn’t been taught to suffer on the inside like we were. It’s what keeps Brenda alive.
