They raise a flag in time with the rising sun as the squad takes aim. “What a pity,” they say. Not bothering to cover the sound of their words. “She was such a lovely thing.” Mato looks up and meets my eyes, which would be a sign of submission to these savages. My father walks over and takes my hand.

I know he’s showing me mercy, letting me know that even though I carry the child of a ‘wild man,’ he still stands by me. He’s offering me sympathy. Not for my loss, as we stand waiting for my husband’s death, but for the indignities I suffered having to live such a life with the tribe. My tribe.

I see only Mato’s face as I step in front of the firing squad. At this distance, I can’t see the lighter caramel flocks of his eyes that I’ve grown so fond of. His steely look falls away for the first time since the soldiers broke down our door. He shakes his head, just as he did the day I placed his hand on my belly.

“Awenasa,” he cried.

“Awenasa,” he cries.

Red blooms out against the proper white dress my father forced me into. He tsked this morning at the dark of my arms and ordered another bath drawn. I look down and force a laugh, causing the blood to further taint the white fabric and my breath to catch in pain.

What a pity. It was such a lovely thing.

– Ashley Andrews