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It’s seven whole days since my younger brother careened to his death
from the scaffold beside me at the construction site. One moment he was
nattering away; the next moment his voice was snuffed out. How could the God I
had never stopped believing in do this? Destroy what he must have created with
effort in one impulsive stroke like a playful child stomps down a joyfully
built sand castle…
It didn’t matter that I never became a
teacher. That I built magnificent houses but would only live in a makeshift
shanty all my life. That the chemicals at my workplace would kill me before time.
But my brother’s dreams mattered. He’d wanted to run a food
stall. His culinary skills would make it the most sought after one in town,
he’d told me in all earnestness. This construction job had been a means to the
end – capital for his business. Our hopes for him had grown with every cent
that went into his piggy bank. His optimism had begun to rub off on me.
I reached for the rusted kerosene can full of pesticide. I drank to my
brother’s dreams and the death of them.
Photo credit: https://morguefile.com/p/68555.
Sunday Photo Fiction
Word count: 196
Word count: 196
Oh no! What a sad ending...I was hoping he would decide to pick up his brother's dreams and run with them. Great job on the prompt!!
ReplyDeleteThanks Donna. The plight of construction site workers in India (along with sewer cleaners) is chillingly inhuman. I hope and pray our government will improve their conditions and give them a fair place in society.
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