if I die before I wake

They must have, on some level, known that they could never tame me. Red pandas are wild animals. They can’t be domesticated.

Perhaps I was too close to my roots for them. I could never stand the finery, the presentation, the deference, the silk dresses and needlework, curtseys, smiles, “yes sir”... It made my head ache and my teeth rot. I spent a lot of years fighting them, fighting everything they asked me to do. 

I learned, the hard way, that strategy wouldn’t work. I developed a new one, swallowing my disgust, following along with everything they asked me to. I had a plan. Really, it started when they told me what was happening next.

A buyer was coming by.

And he looked up and down at all us kids, and he looked real good and hard and somehow decided I was the perfect little girl for him to take home. The usual deal, I’ll pick her up at age 12, paid half up front, half on my twelfth birthday, ready to go to my new home, likely some mansion, servants, kids, wife, “yes sir”... A timer. I had until my twelfth birthday to run away.

Obviously, I wouldn’t get far without some coin. I practiced pickpocketing, sneaking around after hours, petty theft. Occasionally, I was caught, and beaten, but that would never be enough to dissuade me. Once my mind is set, rarely does it change. I simply improved.

I remember the first time I met Ava. She was four, could walk, starting to talk, read… chubby cheeked, useless. I didn’t recognize my mother as my mother until she addressed me as her daughter, and I suddenly realized who she was. I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I was so used to the hall full of our beds, to tutors and teachers, human masters with angry faces, I had forgotten I had come from somewhere. I thought I might have just materialized in that great room.

A room Ava would be joining soon.

She had already spent an unusual amount of time with our mother. Her entire birth was an oddity, there being a four year gap between her and I. I seemed to remember some drama about our mother being sick, needing time to recuperate. Finding someone to replace her would be more difficult than helping her to heal, so they begrudgingly allowed her time, closely monitoring Ava for any signs of weakness. I didn’t see why. She was built like a tank from the first time I saw her. 

I didn’t feel any particular kinship with her, any more than my mother, or my other two older sisters currently in the house, let alone the ones who had already left, that I had never met. I didn’t feel a particular kinship with anyone. The other children avoided me, not wanting to associate with a troublemaker. Most of the teachers hated me for my attitude. I was used to being alone. Fine with it. I stared at her disinterestedly, spoke briefly with my mother, and left to head to needlepoint. I didn’t think about her after that.

A sale, however, is quite the stir.

The house was bustling, some rich cretin coming by to have a look. I hardly cared, I’d already been purchased. But this sale, it was unique, so unique I managed to hear about it without trying.

Ava, six years old, as is.

As in, now.

I snuck through the house, hiding behind a curtain, straining to hear the voices on the other side of the wall, discussing the arrangement. One week to conclude here and she would be sent off. I could hear her foot idly kicking her chair, the quiet tone of the handlers next to her grabbing her leg, holding it tight, telling her not to cause such a fuss.

Six.

My blood ran cold.

Six years old.

I didn’t trust that. Not for a second. I snuck back to the great hall and I sat there in bed all night. I didn’t sleep a wink. I just heard Ava’s leg kicking her chair. By the morning, I had made a new plan. Changed my mind. Whatever money I had would do.

I was leaving. And I was bringing her with me.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was probably luck, that I didn’t have enough for bus fare for one, let alone two, knowing what I know now. I would’ve gotten to the bus stop, I would have been arrested, thrown back into that hellhouse, locked in a room until my twelfth birthday. Ava, my dear Ava, had only seen me on one other occasion, two years prior, when I snuck into her bed, leaning over and, as quietly as possible, explaining our next moves. We are leaving, I told her. She didn’t question it.

I already had my escape route, left the necessary components unlocked, pinched the keys I needed. A clean, silent escape. We had been walking as fast as possible away from the house for a good twenty minutes before Ava finally started to tear up and cry for her mother, asking me what we were doing and where we were going. I threw her on my back and ran. I was paranoid they would hear us somehow. We eventually passed out under a tree. In the morning, I told her we weren’t ever going back, and to forget that place entirely. I changed our names. I burned our past.

Hybrids don’t get childhoods.

We didn’t get a childhood, not in that house or on the streets. It was hard. I was only ten, she was only six. I didn’t know how to raise a child. I hardly knew how to talk to people, after spending so much of my life alone. We were constantly filling in each other’s gaps, learning from each other, from experience, from knockbacks and blow downs… I remember the first time we saw a dead body. After all the crying and vomiting was done, I was furious. Not just because the body was another hybrid, like us, alone and unwanted on the streets, but because I wasn’t able to save Ava from seeing it. If it had been my trauma alone I may have taken it better, but the weight of Ava’s suffering held over me. 

She deserved better.

I couldn't do better by her. I tried. But whatever trust I had quickly faded. People always wanted something, always had some ulterior motive. The cold streets were far kinder than any non-threatening old woman, holding out a tray of food in the doorway of her warm house. 

The key is to be craftier, more self-centered than them. They think you’re stupid, they think you’re falling into their trap. Use that.

“Don’t ever trust nobody,” I tell Ava. “They’re all out for themselves.”

She nods. She already knows. I just worry sometimes. 

Winters are tough. Every spring, I don’t know how we made it. Holding Ava by her shoulders and shaking her, screaming, don’t you fall asleep on me, fight it, we’re almost there baby, we can do it… Snow hits the ground and we look at each other with dread.

Time to nick some parkas and pray.

No, hybrids don’t have childhoods. Everywhere we go, we see this. Hybrid children gardening, hybrid children in maid uniforms cleaning windows, hybrid children begging on the streets with a black eye, looking at us warily with eyes that say “run, they’re going to catch you.” We run, and we don’t look back, and we don’t forget. 

“We deserve better, Ava,” I say, late one night, looking over a bar where a child is rifling through the dumpster. “We all do.”

We have to find a new dumpster to look for dinner in. We aren’t ready to fight right now.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Theft is too risky. Theft is desperation. Pickpocketing is easy (even though Ava could never quite get the hang of it), but entering a store, undetected, that’s hard. Every time we enter, my heart pounds until we leave. 

It’s gone south before… The murder in that man’s eyes the second Ava’s hood came off, revealing her ears. The way his hand reached under the counter.

“AVA, RUN-”

She has always been so obedient, she takes off instantly, shooting like a bullet from the store. I take a moment, I knock over the nearest rack of food, things fall and shatter around me as I take off myself, ensuring to go a different direction to her. I stall briefly, ensuring he sees me, and not Ava. I stall until I see him and I take off again. I know this alley. My head is pounding and my legs tremble with hunger. I know this alley. I should be able to outrun him.

You can’t really know a place. Places change. Things move. Nothing is ever permanent. Sharp metal. I can’t tell what it was from. It slices through my leg and it crumples instantly, I smash to the dirt, in something wet. By the time I catch my breath, look up, it’s too late.

“You all make me sick,” the man spits, raising his gun, aiming it at me.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I decided today is our birthday. It’s a nice, warm day, there’s a lovely breeze, and this town has a little park no one ever goes to. We set up a little shelter with a blanket from my backpack and Ava reveals two chocolate bars she’d managed to pinch. I didn’t even see her grab those. I give her a gift too, it’s a scarf I managed to steal a while back. It’s thick and warm. Ava holds it close, her eyes darkening slightly.

Winter is coming soon.

We huddle together and watch the stars, and just like every birthday, Ava asks about our parents. I don’t know why she cares so much. She’s already forgotten everything about that place, just like I wanted - she doesn’t remember the dresses, the people, the stupid shit they taught her - it’s all been erased, deleted.

Except for our mother’s face.

Really, she knows more about our mother than I do. She spent far more time with her. Half of my stories are made-up, or just hearsay. I didn’t really know the woman.

I knew one story, vaguely well. And Ava was turning twelve, she was probably old enough.

“Mom met Dad, a long time ago, in a far away country…” I recount the tale as best as I can, lying when I’ve forgotten a detail. Ava watches, starry eyed.

“D’ya think they loved each other?” she asked, after I was done.

I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think she’d stay if she didn’t,” I finally replied.

Ava was quiet for a moment. “D’ya think… they loved us?” 

I gave her a look, before pulling her into my arms, wrapping my tail around her protectively.

“It doesn’t matter. I love you more than anything in the entire goddamn world, Ava. I want you, when you close your eyes at night, to know that, despite everything, you are fucking loved. Not for what you can do, or what you can create, but for who you are. I love you, Ava.”

Her eyes welled with tears. With love. Not love for who I was, what I could do, or what I could create, but love for who I was.

“I love you too Marie!” She began crying. “I love you!!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shotgun cocked and I knew it was too late for me.

Sixteen? Sixteen. I’m sixteen. That’s not bad, all things considering. I’ve certainly expected less within my life. 

The sound echoes through my skull and all I think about is Ava. She’s a smart girl. She… she’ll run away, she’ll carry on, she can make it… I push away my bubbling anxieties. No. I believe in her. I trust her.

I love her.

I think about our mother, for some reason, that birthday fresh in my mind. Did she love us? Did anyone love us? Does love truly exist? Once that shotgun goes off, and I no longer exist, will Ava ever be able to trust anyone again?

I have to believe, right? Ava is a smart girl, I taught her well. She knows what love is. She knows when she is truly loved.

Yeah.

I close my eyes.

I’m sorry, Ava. Sorry I ended this way. Sorry I’m leaving you alone. And I am so, fucking sorry, for every tear you shed after you find me here.

But you have to move on.

You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re the fiercest warrior I’ve ever met. You’ll make good decisions. You’ll find new ways. You’ll find new people. You can do better than I did. I believe in you.

I can’t tell you these things, they’re just thoughts in my head, thoughts flashing in the face of the end of my life. I wish I could tell them to you. I wish we had longer together.

But I think you know all these things.

I hear the trigger pull, I hear the gun go off, I do not open my eyes.

I only see you.

You’re a strong girl.

Be strong for me.