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Write Away

I typed away furiously about the latest injustice committed by the Government.

Riots were being held all over the country, a civil war had risen out of the fires of oppression, the ashes coming down to rest upon our wretched garden in a semblance of a toxic blizzard. Factions waged war against each other, and the Government, the state divided and turning on itself. There would be no running away from this, my father had said as he packed his bags for his flight out of the country to the Republic of China, overseeing “diplomatic affairs.” We all knew he was glad for an excuse to run back to his beloved country, leaving us in the wake of terror, and obstruction of life. He would’ve taken mother with him, had she been alive, but fortunately for both us father and daughter, she hadn’t seen what had become of the country.

I was glad, for she would have done the same as I, working furiously at her computer, submitting pieces upon pieces of writing exposing the notorious private sector and corporations for who they were. In the end, it was those corporations who had refused to pay for her treatment, and as she lay on her deathbed in that chalk white room, she had told me not to give in to the bigwigs of our times.

To fight with all my might against the horrors of our capitalist nation; those were the last coherent words she formed before her organs began to shut down one by one, until the inevitable end.

I wished she had said something she didn’t always say to me, like how much she loved me, or something of the dramatic sort, about life and death or love, for that matter. I think I still held some resentment in my heart for those last words.

At first, mere days after her passing I tried to suppress those words. Until they flooded my insides and were all I could think of, I buried them deep within; I refused to go down like her. The foolishness of a child, beg pardon.

One day, my peripheral vision stumbled upon a shadow darting through the doors on my left. Startled, and without much thought on my part, I quickly walked through the doors finding…absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and why would there be?

A dead mother, an absent father, and a grieving child did not make for a full house.

Instead, my eyes fell upon the one thing I hadn’t thought of since her passing.

Her computer lay on the desk, amid the sturdy shelves overcrowded with books, files, and papers of all variety; untouched, with a thin layer of dust covering them, since my father was in too much of a hurry to escape this room, not clean it. Unable to bear it, I grabbed a duster and cleaned the entire thing. I didn’t use the surface cleaner or any other chemicals. She wouldn’t have liked that. I turned the thing on and typed in the password.

Rather than pressing enter, I erased it and typed it again. I must have done so quite a few times in succession, just to feel where her fingers had been, and the realization of my situation hit me: I missed my mother. For all her flaws, sometimes half-hearted interest in my life outside of books, technology, and educating me on both history and current affairs, never bothering to show up at my school for meetings, or even graduation because,

“What good is the education system, when you do all your learning outside of it,”

I missed my dead mother.

Pressing enter to the password and looking at the snowy backdrop, I watched everything load. A Microsoft Word document opened up; I eagerly read through her writing. It was unfinished. Familiar with her styles, fingers hesitantly clicking away, I completed what she could not.

Suffice to say, after spending the night in agony over a life lost, and another completely altered, I had a change of heart the next morning. A change of heart so profound, that a year later as I typed away furiously about the latest injustice committed by the Government, I was certain they would come for me.

I would not leave my work unfinished, for there was no kin left behind to finish it for me.

So, I typed, before they could come get me, and get me they did.

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