Shuffling the scratchy water baskets held in my arms, I walk out of my tiny house alone.
Just a mile away, there is a well where all of the ladies in my regional division gather to collect their days' water. Light fills up the sky, its dim light shining on our faces. Women are squinting up at the unforgiving sun, including my own two discerning orbs.
In the middle of summer, all of us are always outside doing something, whether it is trying to gather crops for food, or being forced to beg others to share.
It is still early in the morning, so I start my day by weaving through the dry and tall reeds that grow in this area, immediately recognizing a rough, clamorous sound edging nearer to the field.
The soldiers are marching again, with the heavy sound of drums quick to follow.
But for now the sound is far, far away.
Distant.
Even so, it seems that every woman in the town who knows what is coming stays silent, trying to hide the obvious fear on their faces. They are praying that the marching wouldn't stop here, in Woodson.
Because it is every week now that our Nation picks a town to grab our boys for the draft.
Before, being a soldier was considered volunteer work, but now people are scarce; The draft is mandatory for men seventeen and older. Ever since the war started, the government of Nation started depleting and rationing the resources of food and water.
A war over forests and land - a war over resources.
The sun beats down on my linen clad back, and the old dress I'm wearing weighs me down when I walk.
It is heavy, itchy, and highly uncomfortable. In fact, the only thing holding the strings of blue fabric together right now are the mismatched, hand-sewed patches that I wove myself using a tree needle.
Trying to wipe my dark hair out of my face with my shoulder, I huff as I march - I am not in shape. No doubt my face is red from the heat right now, shining clearly through my pale cheeks.
But I do what I can.
Sighing, I lift the two containers dutifully higher up on my hips to balance their weight. By now you'd think that I am used to it, used to working so hard like this.
It's been years, but... I still feel as helpless as I look.
The beat of the drums becomes louder, and I decide to ignore it for now.
As I reach the watering well, I spot the usual girls out and about doing their thing with eyes squinting from the daylight. In the distance amidst all of the activity is a familiar face.
Melissa, talking to a friend of hers, her dirty blond hair and coral dress drifting gently in the breeze.
I recognize the other woman she is conversing with - one of her other close friends that works as a part-time seamstress like herself. Most people in Woodson have a specialty, and every time anyone needs something they always know who to go to.
Melissa notices me watching and waves at me, so I wave back.
In response, she throws me a dazzling smile - a common thing for her these days. She, like many other women my age, is finally getting married.
It's strange that although I am friendly with Melissa, we are very opposite from one another. I always was - and still am - the odd ball out. I do not gossip about others like the other women in town, and I do not sit around to braid hair or decorate.
Melissa, on the other hand, is frivolous and girly, yes, but also soft and kind - which I have proof of from personal experience. She would help out anyone in a bad time, including someone like me.
In fact, Melissa and I only became acquainted when she saved me from making a very bad decision when I was young. And for that, I am very grateful. But, we are still a little too different from each other to really be considered the best of friends.
So when Melissa and the lady she has been talking to approaches me and asks me if I want to visit her house later, I gratefully decline.
Melissa, unlike her friend, nods politely in understanding before walking away from me across the field.
I love Melissa, but she isn't like me in the sense of society and friends.
Melissa is a perfect role model of what a girl should be, expected to be, in this era. She likes wearing dresses, she stays at home, she is engaged to be married, she cooks and cleans and stays clean. She is quiet and has good manners.
However, I know that along with this attitude comes obedience, silence, and conformity - strengths that I do not have.
I know that women these days, including gentle-hearted Melissa, only get together to do meaningless things, like gawk over the clothes Melissa makes because she's one of the best seamstresses in town, or plan out their upcoming weddings.
And I know that if I were present during these gatherings, the girls in my town who are friends with Melissa would ask why I haven't been courted yet, would hound me about being too boyish and ill-mannered.
For not being open enough about my life.
And this wouldn't bother me if only they wouldn't cower at any mention of the war in their talks. What truly bothers me is that these women will speak of anything but the real issue at hand, anything but the war, anything but the things we should actually be concerned about.
Issues that we should open our mouths to address.
I shake my head as I reach for the rope on the water well's hook to attach my bucket to the simple machine, my fingertips already knowing what to do.
Distracted, I let myself remember when I was a kid, when my family and I used to go out together on Sundays - to breakfast and to Church.
Before the war was so different.
I was able to swim in the river by my house, roll in the mud, have fun with my brother.
Now there's nothing to look forward to except getting an extra piece of bread at dinnertime.
Whatever happened to the world I knew?
The frown on my face falls into exhaustion as I brush the dirt off of my square apron, knowing that there is nothing I can do to change things now. I shake my head at my childishness, since currently, I have other things to worry about.
I have to get home with the water, I have to take care of my family and look after my brother.
I use the pulley attached to the well to bring the water baskets down into the stone and watch them, one at a time, as they descend into the reservoir. The fountain fills them up pretty quickly, and before I know it, I'm yanking them back up.
The sound of drums are pounding, getting louder.
Perking up, I stop what I am doing and look in the direction of the sound. The vibrations of footsteps coming my way echo my quickening heartbeat, anticipating what's to come, and there is no mistaking the tension in the air.
All of the women and girls like me turn from their duties to show respect to all of the soldiers passing by.
Some girls bow their heads, and some of them try to scan the mass of people just in case they find a loved one.
They're coming down the way now - a dirt path right next to the women's working field - and I don't keep my head down. This specific troop has been walking by us the same hour every day for the past week, searching for recruits - a constant reminder that the worst is yet to come.
The women hold their breath, but many exhale once they see that though more faces were added to the group, there are no people we personally know in town. My own shoulders, that I didn't realize were tensed, ease with the knowledge that my little brother is not there.
My little Andres has just turned seventeen, and I am worried that when Nation comes to draft kids in Woodson, he'll be on their list.
But for today, I can relax.
I notice that the new addition of men come from Addison Town, a larger village a little farther south from Woodson.
You can tell that they are from Addison by their tanned skin, because outdoor labor is what working farms located down south require. Men from Addison Town often have a fitness unparalleled from physical labor, as well as faces that are taut and hard. I assume that the men are now heading way to their barracks station nearby to train.
The line of men seems to be endless, most sporting mean chiseled jaws and stiff movements. Their footsteps are eerily in sync, and I can't bring myself to look away.
I contemplate what would happen if Andres was one of the men standing there, clad in a camouflage suit.
My heart squeezes just considering it.
I think about his face - so youthful and warm. Andres and I share most of our physical features, despite our polar personalities.
We are only two years apart, but imagining my brother's sweet and innocent freckled cheeks, I know that I'd never live with myself if I let him die before I do.
He is too sensitive to endure war conditions, to be surrounded by hate and bitterness.
Why did the Others and Nation have to dispute over land?
And after so long, why hasn't anyone won this war yet?
My country isn't cruel, I know that.
Our leaders are simply trying to gain more resources for their poor peoples.
But it has come down to the fact that this war is only making our situation worse, not better.
And this war needs to end before anyone that I love gets hurt.
Deep in thought, I am about to turn away from the soldiers that strike such intense feelings from me when something, or rather, someone, catches my attention.
An intriguing man, confidently walking amongst the sea of bodies, stands out.
That is what I think when I first see him.
Mysterious, maybe even dangerous.
Staring at him intently, I wonder what his name is.
We didn't know each other, of course, but his features (brown hair and brown eyes that glistened in the sun) are something to marvel at.
He is only a little bit older than I am. Handsome and stuck up maybe, I muse, noting how his chin and shoulders were straight and proud , but he is beautiful.
He has some carefree smile that makes one not want to look away.
As if he feels my stare, his eyes meet mine, but I quickly look away.
A handsome man - who will probably soon be dead.
Shaking my head and pressing my buckets full of water into my abdomen, I am careful not to tip them over since they are close to overflowing.
These two buckets are the only ones Andres and I will have to use for the entire day - for cooking, cleaning, and drinking.
I proceed to walk through the tall grass slowly as the soldiers disappear into the distance.
The weight on my hips is significantly heavier than before, which only adds on to the sinking feeling in my chest.
I don't know why I am so sad today, so anxious and worried.
I can't wait to get home, to see Andres safe and sound.
It is a long walk across the open plain of women workers, so I force myself to ignore the bad feeling I have that it will not be long before the draft lands its eyes on Woodson.
On my Andres.
And when that happens, everything will change.
•••
Hi! It's the author here!
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