and there was no one left to speak for me.

Hate has just one rule.
Summer woke up Tuesday morning with the same feeling she always had. What mysteries would this day hold?
The morning routine was standard. She slipped on jeans and a plain black top, then hurried downstairs and kneeled by the altar. The picture of the man who rested there was all too familiar: fluffy blond hair, pale skin, kind blue eyes and a smile on his lips. Of course, there was the mole on his right cheek. She bowed, placing her forehead against the shiny wood of the floor, murmuring the words, "Thank you for life," and rising.
Breakfast was the same thing as always. Two eggs and a glass of orange juice. She hurried to bring breakfast to her brother, who was always much more lenient with his daily routine. They ate, cleaned the dishes, and polished the frame of the picture in the altar all in silence. Summer ensured her brother had done his own prayer before heading out the door with her notebook and pen.
She sent Arthur on his way when the yellow bus pulled up. The speakers outside blared about some attack on their country. Summer held back tears as she walked the short distance to her school. These attacks were fairly consistent these days, and the fear built up in the citizens until they themselves became violent and caused more attacks. That's what Summer's teachers said.
She sat in her usual seat in the third row at exactly 7:30. All students were seated. The teacher scratched the mole on his right cheek and began.
It was history first block. Summer loved history. Then it was chemistry. Summer loved chemistry, too. The third class was English, and Summer loved that, too. The president told everyone to be thankful for what they had. So Summer was thankful.
She got a 99% on her essay. She smiled and set it aside in her notebook. Walker, the boy next to her, got a 57%. He was escorted out. The next class was algebra. Summer loved algebra.
Lunch was lettuce and cheese sandwiches. Summer noticed the girl ahead of her receive a glass of milk and smiled, receiving her own glass of water. Summer wondered what act of kindness she'd done to be rewarded with that. She sat at a lunch table with the same people she talked to every day, chatting aimlessly about their lives. There was nothing serious to discuss. Serious discussions were for adults.
Back to class. There were two more, and it was home economics and language arts. Currently, Summer was learning Spanish. In the past, she had spent her time on French and sign language, but sign language was no longer needed. They had found a cure for deafness. Summer loved her language classes. As for home economics... Summer exceeded in that class.
She returned home just in time for prayer. With Arthur, they thanked their president for freedom and the right to live. Then Arthur went to read in his room, and Summer cleaned. They ate dinner silently, said a prayer, and Summer sent Arthur to bed. He insisted on another five minutes reading, and Summer supervised him until he had finished. The lights were out, and Arthur closed his eyes.
Summer had a secret.
She grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet under the sink and headed out the back door of their small home. There was one stop first: the donation bin at the end of their street. She nearly ran to it, seeing the time slip through her fingers and the moon crawling across the sky. Her nimble hands snatched a coat from the very top of the bin, and she pulled it over her black shirt. It was a bit torn on the left elbow, but what could she do? All of these clothes were only going to be burned. With that thought, her hands stole another item. This time it was a pair of old leather shoes, tied together by the laces. Even better.
Through the woods, she crawled to where she knew the most recent attack had been. The flashlight guided her way, illuminating the twisted and knobbled trunks of trees and eery shadows of creatures in the dark. She swore she saw a deer leap across her sight, but maybe it was just the nervousness, creeping into her bones and gripping her like a net around her body. Her ankle cramped. She continued on.
The grounds of attack was a massive cavity of destruction, but it was nothing Summer wasn't used to. The callousness of the bombings tore her apart, and it was all she could do not to cry. The last thing these victims needed was more tears.
She approached a sinewy little girl, more than half a decade younger than her, who was wailing into the twilight. There was anguish in those light blue eyes and a certain emptiness on her clear skin.
"Hey-" Summer crouched by her side, slipping off her jacket and offering it to her. It was the reason she had brought it, anyhow. "Here," She offered it, slipping the thick fabric over her trembling shoulders. "How did this happen?"
Summer already knew the answer.
"M-mama said she want-wanted a change." The girl clung to her like gum on a shoe. "She- she sent a letter to- mister president."
It was the same story every time. Summer was used to it. They want change;, they want liberty and freedom for all- but no. The world cannot work that way. Not even just the country could work that way.
"Did you know your papa?" Summer crossed her legs and sat in front of the child. She took bony hands in her own and rewarded the girl with a smile for all her effort. Sometimes it took hours just to get them to talk.
"Y-yes,." She hiccuped and hung her head. Brown hair slipped like silk over her scalp. There was a daunting gash impaled into her upper neck. "Mama hate-hated him."
So it was one of these. Summer nodded,. "You know your mama and papa loved you, don't you?"
A pitiful sob sputtered from her lips,. "Yes."
"You've done nothing wrong, and your mama has done nothing wrong,." Summer urged. "You must know that."
The girl was drifting off, exhaustion dragging her like a lion dragging its prey into its den. Summer did what she could for her wounds, cleaning the split skin of her neck and wrapping it in gauze from her back pocket. Just before she crept away, the minuscule voice of the child wriggled into her ear.
"Thank you, Saint..." Little pink lips stuck together in the dry air. "For life..."
In her escapades, the victims had given Summer a name (since she refused to give her real one). Their country's history was shaky, at best, and every famous figure was outweighed by another figure from another origin and ethnicity. Instead of calling their savior after some actual saint or monk or queen, they somehow simultaneously called her "Saint". As flattering as it was, Summer wanted to keep her image a secret. She could be targeted if people found out what she was doing. What would happen to her brother?
All night she cared for those who were attacked. Summer kept her head bowed at all times, as she could no longer hold in the tears that sprung from within her, and the victims did not notice. Fortunately.
It was almost morning by the time she had bandaged the last child's arm. She pressed a kiss to his mole-less cheek and stalked away, the flashlight tucked into her pocket and the secret receded into her body. It was not a far walk to the house. She arrived at the back door just a half hour before she was supposed to wake. Perfect. She slid inside, shutting the back door behind her, and tiptoed into the bedroom. Arthur was still asleep, still as a rock. She sighed in relief and peeled off her clothes, switching them out with an identical pair of blue jeans and black shirt from the plastic bin under her bed. She took yesterday's clothes and headed into the kitchen, where she washed them until the blood was no longer visible. There was a reason she only wore black shirts.
Her forehead pressed against the rotting wood of the floor. The president's blistering blue eyes rained a torrent on the back of her chestnut-headed scalp, and the concealed grimace laid hidden beneath a pleasant smile. His hair glimmered as gold as the coins in his wallet. Summer stood and polished the glass of his frame, thinned from so many polishings. She set it back on the shelf and moved to the kitchen.
Breakfast was the only thing they ever had. Two eggs and orange juice. She brought her own plate and Arthur's into the bedroom, and they ate in silence. Both of their stomachs rumbled even as they cleaned the grease off their plates, and then they cleaned the dishes under cold water and set them aside to dry. Summer made sure her brother had said his prayer before grabbing her notebook and pen and heading out the door.
There was no attack to be reported that morning, as Summer sent Arthur into the yellow bus. Instead, there was a passionate report of the elusive "Saint". The president himself spoke into the speakers and demanded this "Saint" should turn himself in and face the consequences of aiding in terrorist attacks. Summer smiled inwardly.
She got to her third-row seat at exactly 7:30. The teacher shuffled some papers. The bell rung, everyone was seated. The teacher scratched his mole and began.
It was history first period. Summer did not like history. It was all a story of bias and discrimination against those who did not claim this history themselves. Next was chemistry. Summer did not like chemistry. It was unrelated to any career choice she was to have. The third period was English, and this class Summer did not like. Even as a country of English-speakers, they did not discuss any world issues or things that truly mattered. Her teacher handed out a new book assignment that day. It was a classic, he said. Summer chewed her lip and avoided asking the definition of classic literature because she already knew. All those authors were the same, and the passive-aggressive question would not get her anywhere.
The president told everyone to be thankful for what they had. And so Summer did everything she could to aid those who did not have anything to be thankful for.
Algebra was a bore and the same as chemistry. She could see no use for Pythagorean's theorem in her daily life. Lunch was a mix of spinach salad and baked potatoes. Summer took her food and glass of water and sat with the same people, making sure to keep the conversation at nothing but shallow gossip to rest her nerves for a while.
The fifth class was language arts. Summer spoke Spanish, and she actually enjoyed this class. Some of the victims she encountered were Spanish-speaking or simply could not understand much of the English language. But that class always went too fast, and the last one of the day rolled around. Home economics was the only other class that she did not entirely mind. Knowing and learning how to stitch clothes made it awfully easy when she needed to do the same to pierced skin.
Summer returned home with an ache in her bones. Her body creaked with each movement and she craved nothing but sleep. As soon as she got home, she tossed her notebook and pen onto the kitchen table and cooked dinner, a meal of beans and apple slices. By that time Arthur had arrived too, and she dished out the servings with some yearning for more. They ate in silence, and per usual, Arthur disappeared into his room to read. Summer washed the dishes, said her prayer, and tucked herself into the cotton sheets of her bed. Arthur whined for too long for having to end the night early and Summer made her most grave mistake yet.
"Please, Arthur, I didn't get any sleep last night 'cause of the attack!"
The two of them realized what she had said at the exact same time, and froze.
"Do not repeat what I just said,." Summer whispered, ducking her head in close to her brother.
"Are you the Saint?" He exclaimed, and Summer slapped a hand over his mouth.
"No, no, I'm not. Please, Arthur, you're going to get me killed." She swallowed and held her breath.
"You're gone so many nights." His eyes were huge. "Always after an attack."
Summer swore under her breath and itched the tattoo of the mole on her cheek. Long ago, after their parents were victims of an attack, Summer tattooed a mole on her cheek. She touched itthem up every few months to keep up the appearance. Somehow, Arthur had been born with the mole and was safe.
"You cannot tell anyone," Summer said, releasing her hand from Arthur's mouth and laying back. But she already knew it was too late. Of course, Arthur would tell someone accidentally, and already in her head, she went over a thousand ways to run away and escape the country and flee to safety.
Neither of them slept that night. All Summer could think about was if there was any way out of this situation. And all Arthur could think about was how weird it was that the Saint, the vigilante that terrified the government was his sister. The night air was cool and light against the skin. It would have been beautiful if not for the chill of emotion contorting Summer's insides.
The next day was worse than the last two. Summer did not change clothes. She spoke her prayer, but the glass shattered when she tried to polish it. She cooked breakfast but did not clean the dishes. And she forgot her notebook when she walked out the door, only grabbing her pen and dragging Arthur out behind her. She made him promise to keep quiet about their secret before he got onto that dreary bus. He promised and ran off.
The morning announcement was even direr: anyone whothat turned in the Saint would be rewarded with luxury meals for life and a reward of their choosing. Summer could not focus on any of her classes and barely managed to stay awake during chemistry. The president sent another announcement out at lunch, and Summer grew even more nervous. Spanish class flew by, and home economics seemed to be half a period. She could not even remember what she'd eaten for lunch by the time she got home.
Arthur did not get home at his usual time. Summer only noticed when she finished making dinner and did not hear any pattering of feet to the table. "Arthur?" She called, slopping beef stew into a bowl and peering around the small home. No answer. More frantically, "Arthur?" She set the pot down, running to the front door and flinging it open, looking around for the boy. Anxiety trickled into her brain until it was all she could think about, and she sat at the kitchen table until dark waiting for him. Her foot tapped on the old wooden floor and she shivered with nervousness. The stew went cold.
It was past midnight by the time there was a knock at the door. Summer froze, thinking of a thousand terrible possibilities, before rising from her seat and staggering to the door. She felt lightheaded.
There was no one at the front door. Had she hallucinated? No, there it was again. She shut the front door and turned. Another knock, hastier this time. She stepped to the back door and opened that, and found one thing she was not expecting.
It was the girl she'd talked to two nights before, after the attack. She wore the jacket Summer had given her and clung to it like a lifeline. There were tear stains on her face. Beside her was Arthur, looking more serious than usual, and behind them was another victim she'd helped a year or two ago. He had a rainbow sewn into his charity jacket and a smile on his face.
"Saint,." He greeted. "Come with us if you'd like to live."
She couldn't deny that, could she? The little girl pulled out a box of matches from her pocket, and the man slid a bottle of what looked to be alcohol from his own coat. The two survivors pulled Saint out of the house, going to her place and spreading the bottle of strong-smelling liquid everywhere, in every crevice. Then the girl lit a match and ran.
It was glorious to see that house go up in flames. To see those billowing clouds of black smog reach for the endless sky and crackle with the victory. They didn't stay long to witness it. The man gripped Saint's forearm and pulled her away, into the woods behind the house and down a path Saint had heard of. It was how survivors of attacks were able to escape and find freedom. The night engulfed the trees in a threatening malice and Arthur ran, pressed up against Saint's leg.
"How did you find me?" Saint asked the man and the girl. They told her. The rescued girl had gotten to the end of the escapee's path and insisted they go back to Saint and that she was in danger. It did not take much persuasion. The survivors sent survivors as the rescue crew. Arthur had only found them on the way, seeing the army at his school that day and rushing to look for help. Arthur was able to show the rescue team to their house, and then they found Saint and torched the place.
Hate has just one rule. The one rule is that hate can know no bounds.