Is breá liom tú, mo laoch beag.
I love you, my little warrior.
Those were her last words to me as she shoved me into the small crawl space just beyond the kitchen.
Our secret hiding place.
I always thought it was a type of game when she’d make me practice time and time again, getting in and out of the crawl space without being heard. Without being seen.
Knowing what I do know, it is clear there was something much more urgent behind it.
Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín.
Who is singing those lyrics? Lyrics to a lullaby that my mother once told me had been passed down from generation to generation among the women in her family.
Before I can put much thought into it, the same voice begins to hum the tune beside me. Am I dreaming?
No, I am in too much pain to be dreaming.
Then what is happening?
Does it even matter? The warm bass of the voice humming mother’s tune caresses the air around me, filling me with a sense of long forgotten peace. A sense of home, and once again, I slip into the depths of unconsciousness.
Where am I?
The stale smell of hay and urine is gone, and the beneath me is soft and warm. There is a thick quilt draped over me, it’s heaviness providing a comfort I’m unaware I needed.
My eyes are heavy, and I don’t need to open them to know I am alone. I’ve spent a lot of time over the years getting to know what an empty room sounds like. Taking a deep breath, I inhale the fresh scent surrounding me.
Orange and cedarwood.
What an odd combination.
Fog stills holds my mind in its clutches, and I can’t place where I’ve smelled that scent before, but my body seems to understand it means safety because the tension in my muscles begins to uncoil.
Slowly, I pry my eyes open; the lashes nearly flued shut. The room is blurry, and I carefully bring a hand up to wipe away at the conjunctiva that has settled over them. I take a deep breath, fear washing over me before I have chance to clamp down on it.
What if this is all a dream?
No, it can’t be. I remember them, the men who rescued me. The ones who bore features similar to mine.
My brothers.
Or had that all been a figment of my imagination?
Pain flares sharp and immediate in my left side when I try to sit up. I bite down the cry that threatens, blinking against the tears gathering in my eyes.
Then it all comes back to me.
I’d been shot.
Rescued and shot all in the same day. Karma really is a bitch.
“You’re awake.”
I turn my attention toward the door, where an elderly woman stands smiling, a small tray of food in her hands. She stands tall. Her shoulders erect, head slightly raised as she takes in my current state.
Sweat dots my foreheads as I struggle to stay composed while she makes her way into the room. My abdomen is killing me in this position, but I know I won’t be able to sit up fully without any help, and I don’t want to appear weak by lying back down.
