The Color Of Gold

 

            I ran down the street, watching the ground pass beneath me. The red brick road was rocky. Some bricks were higher than others. I focused on the path so I wouldn’t trip. My boots hit each beat with a rhythmic click. The worn leather squeaked every so often from rubbing against one another. A trail of muddy footprints followed me as I went. My blue jeans were faded and dirty with a large rip in one of the knees.

            I stopped when I reached a picket fence. It was neglected and falling apart; almost hidden by the tall grass. I climbed over the fence, for the gate wouldn’t budge. Following the dirt path through the fields I came up to a red barn. I’d been there before.

            In the distance a billow of smoke rose from a darkened building. Not a single glimmer of light was shining from within. I strode toward it. As I reached the building, I realized it was a large barn. I pulled back the door enough for my body to fit through and shut it behind me again.

            Inside there was a fire surrounded by large coals. Sitting around it were men and women dressed in tribal robes with feathered head-dresses. They looked up when they saw me and one man stood to greet me.

            "Icha-ka-boloto?" he asked me. I understood his question, but I didn't know why. I had never heard this language before. "Mota-bea-re getaan hoeala." I replied. Again, I didn't understand how I knew this language.

            He smiled at me and addressed his people. "Se-agh heta- getaan hoeala!" he said. She is one of our people. The next few days were spent in his company. I learned I was sent by their Gods to help their people. They were a starving race left out from the world's developments for millennium. I was supposed to hep them. I was their savior.

            I failed miserably. They soon died, despite my efforts. Diseases they couldn't heal had struck them before my arrival. A strong strain of bird flu was taking hold of them. I quarantined the ill, only allowing myself to care for them. But my care, and the medicine I got from the hospital I work at wasn't enough.

            I returned there often after the death of the last member. No one else knew they even existed. I have sole responsibility for the death of an entire race of natives. The last of the descendants that were tortured so much from the white men who took their land so many years ago.

            Now I am alone.

            The barn was neglected and sported a large hole in its roof. A few animals had taken residence in the barn. A few owls and other birds nested in the rafters, and mice and rats roamed by every once in a while. At night, you could hear the bats although I’ve never seen where they hide during the day. Here, in this old barn, is my sanctuary from the world outside.

            Sometimes the worst places are really the safest . . .