Forget to Be Lost

April 10, 2012
I need to find them. I don’t care if I starve. I don’t care if I freeze. I don’t care if I die. I need to know they’re okay. I would run for days if that’s what it took. They’re only gone because of one man: Cuba’s glorious “leader.” Or as I, and the other people I associate with, call him: Cuba’s cruel, evil dictator. He already took my father, what more does he want? That’s right; he wants my mother and little sister too. But luckily, they got away just in time. While I was at school hanging out with my friends, they were at home getting warned by neighbors that he was coming. While I was learning about how y=mx+b, the little family I had left was running for their lives. And now so was I.


I stopped running to take a look at my surroundings. The sky had fallen dark, and I was in the middle of a bunch of really tall, scary looking trees. I had no idea where I was. It was raining heavily, and if it weren’t for the sheltering leaves of the tall trees, I would’ve been soaked. This forest didn’t seem like it had many dangerous animals; some rabid raccoons if anything. Resting here for the night sounded like a good idea. Besides, there were more policemen roaming the country during the night than there were during the daytime. I lay my rag of a blanket on the ground, and sat down.

I would’ve hunted for something to eat, but I was too worried about my family. What if they couldn’t find safety? What if they were without food, and were starving right now? What if the government caught them? I asked myself these questions, but I already knew all the answers.

I could imagine what I looked like right now. Although my hair was in a pony tail, it hadn’t been washed for days. With dried mud caked onto the packed mats of the tail, and on my head, I highly doubted anybody would be able to see my light caramel-colored hair through all of it. It was so knotted that if I took out the thin hair band that held it together, my hair would still be in the form of a pony tail.

I didn’t feel like I was wearing clothes anymore. They were nothing more than rags. Thankfully my clothes still covered my private parts, but there were slash marks, and gaping holes here and there from all of the branches that hung off of small trees, as I ripped through them while running. My shirt used to be red, and it promoted Dr. Pepper. No one will ever be able to see the coke glass again. I made the mistake of wearing jeans, for they were the easiest target for incoming sticks, rocks, and branches. They were so torn up; one could mistake them for a pair of Capri pants that survived a tornado. My shoes were what surprised me most. Sure they had holes in them. Sure they’re brown, but used to be white. Sure the sole had disappeared. But they were still wearable, and that’s all that counts. I carried a black backpack with me. I would’ve taken another pair of clothes, but I figured food, water, a compass, a map, and a book were a little more important.

I tried to fall asleep, but it was a failed attempt. It must’ve been ten or eleven in the evening. Maybe I should just get up and start running again. Might as well. I knew that they were looking for me. Just like they were looking for every other rebel they thought was a serious threat. Was it my fault I was sick of being poor? Was it my mother’s fault? Was it my little eight year old sister’s fault? No matter what job my mother took up, we remained in the same state of poorness as we did before. I hate Batista. He took the jobs. He took the money. He took my family. He took away everything! As my father fought alongside Fidel Castro in an attempt to take over the government a year ago in 1956, he was killed along with most of the other rebels. So for that, and the rebellion organizations that my mother was a part of, they felt it was necessary to take away the rest of my family.

Just because of all the threats of imprisoning, and maybe even killing me, I wasn’t going to flee and hide somewhere. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Sure, I’m only sixteen, but I know I can fight back. I don’t care about anything anymore. I don’t care if I go to jail. I don’t care if I can never go back home again. I don’t care if I kill a man.





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