Leaning over the table, I ejected the cassette and inserted the tape back into its sleeve.
I’d gone through her file. I’d watched the beginning of the First Debt and fast-forwarded over the whipping. I’d spied on security footage of Emma strolling through the Hall like any welcome guest. I held my breath as she sewed and sketched in the same quarters where Jethro had broken, made love to me, and told me what he was.
I couldn’t watch anymore.
Whatever went on in her time at Hawksridge was hers to keep. It wasn’t right to voyeur on her triumphs over Cut or despair over her moments of weakness. It wasn’t for me to console or judge.
My mother’s presence filled my heart, and in a way, I felt her with me. My shoulder warmed where I imagined she touched me. My back shivered where her ethereal form brushed past.
I’d summoned her from the grave and held her spirit, ready to release her from the shackles of the catalogue room.
I have to free them all.
Shooting out of my chair, I rubbed my sticky cheeks from unnoticed tears and rushed to the other filing cabinets. Each one was dedicated to an ancestor.
I couldn’t catch a proper breath as I yanked open metal drawers and grabbed armfuls of folders. Working one-handed slowed me down. I dropped some; I threw some, scattering them on the table.
Cursing my cast, I lovingly touched every page, skimmed every word, and whispered every sadness.
Time flowed onward, somehow threading history with present.
Jethro was right to leave.
As a Hawk, he wouldn’t be welcome.
The longer I stood in that cell, the more I battled with hate.
Folder after folder.
Document after document.
I made a nest, surrounded by boxes, papers, photographs, and memorabilia from women I’d never met but knew so well.
Kneeling, I sighed heavily as their presence and phantom touches grew stronger the more I read. Their blood flowed in my veins. Their mannerisms shaped mine, their hopes and dreams echoed everything I wanted.
No matter that decades and centuries separated us, we were all Weavers taken and exploited.
My jeans turned grey with dust, my nose itchy from time-dirtied belongings.
Lifting images from the closest file, I stared into the eyes of an ancestor I didn’t recognise. She was the least like me from all the relatives I had. She had large breasts, curvy hips, and round face. Her hair was the signature black all Weaver women had and looked the most Spanish out of all of us.
So much pain existed in her eyes. Trials upon trials where the very air solidified with injustice and the common hatred for the Hawks.
I didn’t want to sit there anymore. I didn’t want to coat myself in feelings from the past and slowly bury my limbs in an avalanche of memories, but I owed it to them. I’d told my ancestors I would set them free, and I would.
Tracing fingertips over grainy images, I worshipped the dead and apologised for their loss. I spoke silently, telling them justice had been claimed,karma righted, and it was time for them to move on and find peace.
My fingertips smudged from pencil and parchment, caked in weathered filth. The video recordings ceased the earlier the years went on. Photographs lost pigment and clarity, becoming grainy and sepia.
I hated the Hawks.
I hated the debts.
I even hated the original Weavers for condemning us to this fate.
So many words.
So many tears.
