"Leslie What - Clinging to a Thread" - читать интересную книгу автора (What Leslie)

тАЬI brought fruit,тАЭ I said, because I could not think of anything else.

тАЬIs that you, Lena? Come closer, so I can see you.тАЭ She motioned for me to
sit beside her on the bed, but the room smelled strongly of urine or worse, and I
could not bring myself to touch anything in it, including Ruth.

тАЬCome here, little sister,тАЭ she said then, and I backed away.

тАЬI canтАЩt stay,тАЭ I said, and made myself cough. тАЬI have a bad cold. You might
get sick. IтАЩll come back another time. Enjoy the fruit.тАЭ

I left the basket with Sarah, then turned to rush out of the room.

She walks toward a bus, in line alongside many faceless children. If sheтАЩs on
her way to school, why have the windows been blackened?

тАЬYou must find out what has happened to my little brother, Karl. I cannot rest
until I find him. My sister will know,тАЭ she says, facing me. тАЬAsk Ruth, wonтАЩt you,
please?тАЭ

The guard in front of the bus kicks the children between their legs to hurry
them inside. She is next in line, and my heart speeds up as I watch her approach the
doorway.

She carries somethingтАФ a scrap of cloth, and when another guard shoves her
forward, she drops it. She turns to pick it up, but the guard kicks her, and she
screams.

тАЬStop,тАЭ I call. тАЬDonтАЩt hurt her.тАЭ The child stares at me with dull gray eyes. It
is only then that I know with certainty she is already dead. тАЬI want to help you.
Please. What should I do?тАЭ

тАЬJust donтАЩt forget me,тАЭ she says quietly, before stepping up to the bus. For a
moment, I think I see her face pressed against a blackened window, but it vanishes
like a penny sinking to the bottom of a fountain.

I walk to where the cloth lies on the ground. It is a handkerchief with
butterflies and flowers that match those on my pillowcase. A single thread has been
pulled out, leaving a shadowy line across the fabric.

I clutch the handkerchief and feel something tugging, pulling against the
missing string. It is the child, who is tied to me by threads I cannot see. I hold the
fabric tight, refusing to let go, terrified the child will fall away. This child is my aunt,
my motherтАЩs sister. I want desperately to cling to her. But as the bus pulls away, the
thread breaks, and I watch helpless, as the bus disappears inside of haze.

The sheets were cold, drenched in sweat. I pulled on my robe before hurrying
out of my room. I could not shake the image of the child from my mind. Even with
my eyes closed, I saw her face, an afterimage scratched in the periphery of my
vision. I had come to depend on seeing her in my dreams. I did not expect to see her