#awl1

I have never known peace.

    Standing outside the neighborhood’s border, I know it now more than ever. I feel it, the distance that separates me and those inside. Peace. I couldn't begin to describe what that feels like.

    The border is guarded by a wall of metal slabs that tower into the sky. They are separated by thin gaps, the spaces wide enough for us to peak at what's inside, but too narrow for us to slip through. We are here because we were promised asylum, but now, at the gates, there is no one here to meet us. I feel as if peace is dangling in front of me, taunting me from behind the wall.

    My mother feels it too. She shouts impatiently at the guard atop the outpost guarding the entrance, demanding his attention. Instinctively, I lower my head. He has a weapon I've never seen before, and I know if he catches sight of me, he'll use it unprovoked. My mother does not realize this. She often doesn't. It's easy to feel safe when you've never felt the fear of being different in a way that you can't hide. She commands the guard’s attention with the conviction of someone who belongs.

    Eventually, the guard notices us. It takes him even longer to muster enough interest to come meet us. The tower is stories high. We watch him descend each flight of steps leisurely. My mother sighs as we wait; a drop of rain hits my cheek. For a second, I'm tempted to look at the sky, but instead I retreat, pulling my hood lower over my eyes.

    "How long is he going to take," My mother demands.

    "As long as he wants," I muttered back.

    The minutes go past - four, I counted. Eventually he meets us at the base of the tower, in front of the door he came out of. He blocks it with his body, as if he's afraid we might try to follow him back in. I hide behind my mother with my hood low and eyes down. Still, I feel him watching me. Sizing me up. We stand in silence until it's clear he wants us to speak first. My mother clears her throat and says, "we're here to seek asylum."

    A long silence follows as we wait for his response. Instinctively, I look up for the meaning of it. Fuck. The guard and I lock eyes. He frowns as he searches my face, taking in my eyes, the hints of my hair beneath my hood, and my skin. Recognition dawns on him. It is that simple. He's seen my face and now our chances are ruined.

    The guard sneers as he turns his eyes back to my mother. His top lip curls up in disgust. "There's no asylum here," he states.

    "We were told-" starts my mother. He interrupts. "There's no asylum here. Go back to where you came from."

    "I want to talk to your president," she demands. I suck in my breath. Supposedly, their president, feeling sympathetic of my plight, has offered us asylum. No one has ever offered us anything. The entire journey here, I warned her that this wouldn't work, but she insisted. Now here we are in the rain, rejected, and the promising president is nowhere to be found.

    "I told you," the guard asserts, stepping forward, “there’s no asylum here.” He flicks a switch on the side of his weapon, and it clicks. I jump. This is bad.

    My mother looks between his face and his weapon. She moves her hands behind her back carefully, a needle slipping from the pocket of her sleeve and into her hand. She could save us with one flick of her wrist. But, we would never be able to return. I watch her weigh our options, deciding the safest path. Meanwhile, the guard stands confidently in his ignorance. He has no clue how close his life is to ending.

    For ten long seconds they stare at each other, until my mother speaks.

    "President Vanya personally invited us here," she says carefully, her eyes on the guard's fingers. One rests inside a hole in his weapon, twitching in anticipation. The mention of his President's name seems to stall him. He looks us over once more, then points the tip of his weapon at me. My mother tenses. I stare, paralyzed, at the long cylinder aimed at my face.

    He looks up at the top of the watch tower and gives a quick nod. Another guard I had not noticed before nods back and disappears. The gate buzzes, then slides open. He gestures at the gate with his weapon, then points it back at me.

"Go through the gate," he demands. “Slowly, or I'll fucking shoot you."

    My mother takes my hand and pulls me forward. The guard follows close behind. I can feel his weapon on the back of my neck, waiting for an excuse.

    Slowly, just as he ordered, we make our way through the neighborhood. I walk with my head low and eyes down. It is close to midday. Even without looking, I can tell the neighborhood is busy. Children laugh, store owners haggle, a woman we pass tells her friend about an awkward encounter she had the night before. But as we walk, we leave a trail of stunned silence in our wake, and the sounds of life fade from my ears. I tug on my hood nervously.

    Suddenly, the guard grabs my hood and yanks it back, pulling my head and hair with it. I can feel audible gasps from the few onlookers as my identity is revealed. "Keep that shit down," he orders. I nod obediently. The woman, deep in conversation seconds before, spits at my feet.

    "Why would you even bring her in here?" she asks the guard. He grumbles in response. Her friend tssks at him.

    In front of me, my mother looks back. Her eyes smolder with anger. For a second, I wish she had chosen the other path and killed the guard when we were still outside the borders. Now her needles are hidden in her sleeve pocket. She can't use them, or anything like it, with all of these witnesses here. Our ability to protect ourselves is lost. We are entirely at the mercy of the citizens of this neighborhood. And it is clear as day that they hate me.

    Our slow progression to the President's estate takes 20 minutes. I count each perilous second, desperate to ignore my increasingly hostile surroundings. The citizens of the neighborhood sneer and whisper as we pass. The first guard is joined by more, trailing us with a procession of weapons and glares. Soon, the busy sounds of life fade away altogether as the neighborhood gathers to watch our shameful march. The crowd forms a wall, a long line of onlookers watching us as we trek pass. The message is clear: we are not welcome here.

    The president's mansion looms over the neighborhood. I can see it in the distance as we near the end of the main road. By now, everyone is alert. They know my mother and I are here. Another patrol of guards shield the entrance to the president’s estate. They point their weapons at us on arrival, standing at attention. The first guard shoves his weapon into my back. I don't expect it, stumbling forward from the force.

    "You first," he kicks me forth. "Go up to the gate. Alone." He aims that last part at my mother, who trains her eyes to the ground in place of a response. One wrong look could kill, and I will be the victim.

    I do as I'm told, scurrying forth to reach the gate. I am trapped now, weapons pointed to my front and my back. As I approach the guards tense, fingers going to the hole of their weapons, just like the first guard at the border.

    "Hands up in the air!" someone shouts. I jerk, looking for the voice, but it's impossible to discriminate one person in this living wall of opposition from another. Carefully, I raise my arms in the air and continue my voyage. The gate clicks, then buzzes, when I approach, sliding open slowly to reveal a group of four guards. They are arranged in an open square, a woman standing confidently in the center.

    Every part of her appearance alarms me. She has the palest hair I've ever seen, almost translucent against her skin. Her eyes are a hypnotizing blue. I knew a girl who once injected a concoction of raw cabbage and soap into her eyes to make them that blue. A powerful blue. Her shape is slender, poised, and relaxed. Yet she seems so aware. She fixes her blue eyes on me and smiles.

    "Mira, I'm glad to see you've made it here safely," says the President with a warmth I've only ever heard from my mother. I look around at the crowd of guards, their weapons trained on me, then back to the woman.

    "I know this might seem...excessive," she smiles again, "but it's just a precaution. The outside world can be dangerous. I'm sure you know that better than anyone." I nod in agreement. I know that all too well.

    President Vanya looks me over, her smile fading into a lopsided ghost of what it was. She steps forward and the guards grip their weapons. A shake of her head is all it takes to assuage them. They stand at attention with their weapons down.

    She holds out a hand to me. "Come," she says, "let's get to know each other." For a moment I reach out to take it, then pause, looking back to my mother. She is watching me in distress, held back by the guard who brought us here.

    "Don't worry," the president assures, using her finger to guide my eyes to hers, "you'll see her later."

    "Later?" I asked, confused. I look back to my mother. The president takes my hand and starts to guide me, gently, inside. Her security takes the hint, following her lead in their formation.

    Realization comes to my mother long before it comes to me. "Wait-" she says, walking forward. The guard from before, the first guard, pushes her back.

    "Wait," she demands again. "This wasn't what we talked about! Mira! Wait!" The guard shoves her back again, pointing his weapon at her when she does not obey. She stops in her tracks, her hands reaching desperately into her sleeves.

    "Mom, no!" I yell, pulling against the president's hand. I know how this will end if she does what she's planning. President Vanya tightens her grip on me. Her security responds in kind, two turning to watch us, two training their weapons on my mother.

    "Mira, come with me," the president says calmly. I don't look at her, my eyes pinned on my mother. The guard grabs her arm, and she jerks her body away.

    "Mom, stop!" I scream, trying again to pull free.

    "Mira," the president says again, jerking me against her side. I look up to her, astounded. Her cool blue eyes hold me in place.

    "Do you want to see your mother again? Do you want her to live?" She asks me. My breath catches in my throat. Tears pool in my eyes. "Do you?" She demands.

    I nod, sniffling back a sob.

    "Then you should listen to instructions, shouldn't you?" She asked. I nodded again, casting my eyes to the ground. A tear splatters onto the concrete, another following soon after. My mother screams my name again. I shut my eyes and count to ten, trying to shut it all out. Trying to make it all go away. I hear my mother struggle. I hear the guard argue with her. The crowd goes restless, shouting commands of how to handle her. I hear a loud crack, a slap, then the sound of her body falling to the ground. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter.