by Shafia Al-Mohannadi
Here they come; the Not-Mamas. They hovered around me while
I lay there helplessly as each of their smelly hands pinch my now swollen, red
cheeks. Don’t the Not-Mamas know who much it hurts? Wasn’t that considered to
be some sort of physical abuse?
A whimper sound escaped my trembles lips when I all could hear
was gibberish, strange, alienated echoes.
“Stop!” I yelled, but the Not- Mamas only cooed in response.
Light finally gathered around my when I finally saw her.
Mama was my feeding machine, my crib, my former home. Dark stands of brown hair
fell into my face, making it difficult for me to see her gleaming, big brown
eyes. My hands – which weirdly for some reason appeared smaller than the
Not-Mamas who had claws for hands – desperately trying to catch a curl, tempted
to play with it, eat it or even just grasp it tightly without letting my toy
go.
“Just don’t leave me again, Mama.” I said as bubbles for
saliva dripped down my chin. “Don’t leave me with the Not-Mamas anymore.”
Mama only patted my back, rocked me back and forth in a
soothing rhythm and before I knew it, I couldn’t see anymore.
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