Birthright: Prompt 6 [Kimberly]

You stayed out later than usual - the sun is setting behind the trees, ambery gold light shining into your eyes.

You shield them, grumbling, and stagger a bit on the path. Glancing down, you realize one of your laces has come loose and skitters across the road.

You would tie it, but you notice the blood and freeze.

You swallow down a sudden swell of bile, coughing to dislodge the need to vomit.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

You reach your cabin's porch before you realize Kimberly is sitting on the swing there. She's slowly rocking, one foot folded beneath her, the other dangling.

"Shit, you scared me," you hiss at her.

Kimberly doesn't look up from the woolen row she's knitting, the metal needles clicking softly. It's almost swallowed by the sound of crickets, but it's there. Clink-clink-clink.

"You're late," she says. "Mom went to dinner without us."

"Why didn't you go with her?" you ask, fascinated by how her hands move, how effortlessly she weaves the thread into a... scarf? You can't tell what she's making, but you know it will be as perfect as always.

Kimberly sighs, shifting aside and giving you space on the swing beside her. "Today was your first day in the slaughterhouse," she says. "I didn't know if you'd be... okay." Matter of fact. Almost brusque despite the care in it.

You listen to her needles click for a while and do your best to ignore the memory of warm blood on your hands. Of the prayer you and Jacob whispered above the six chickens, three sheep, and one cow you butchered.

You swallow, and your throat is too thick to be natural. "It was..."

Kimberly's hands stop moving. Her eyes meet yours; she rolls her lips around whatever she wants to say, gnawing at them momentarily.

"Come sit," she finally says.

You do, practically collapsing. Kimberly snorts a slightly amused, slightly reproachful noise before returning to her work.

Clink-clink-clink.

"How bad was it?"

"Bad enough that I'd rather ruin my knees and back in the greenhouse," you mumble. You go to brush the hair from your forehead but stop mid-motion. You swear you're seeing blood in the creases of your palms, but it's not really there. It all washed out after the fifteen scrubbing.

Kimberly softly hums. "I'm still surprised you agreed to try."

"Jacob needs help," you say. "Deerly asked me, and I..."

"You wanted to be useful," Kimberly says without any inflection. No understanding, no rebuke. Just words.

"It's just..." you sigh. "You'll get it when you're older."

Kimberly rolls her eyes toward the sky. "I'm sixteen. I'm old enough to understand feeling like a drain."

You consider her words carefully. Then you consider your own. "Why do you feel like a drain?"

Kimberly's brow arches, but she doesn't look up from her work. "Seriously?"

Mom. Mom makes her feel like a drain. A drain on her time, emotions, and community standing. You draw Kimberly toward you in an abrupt side hug. Kimberly squeaks, surprised, and snaps, "Hey, watch out, you big oaf! I need to finish this for Leslie by tomorrow, and you're gonna make me mess it up!"

That just makes you want to bother her more. But you release her, kiss the crown of her head, and get up. "We should go get dinner."

"I'm too tired to go. I'd rather have some cereal and watch TV."

She says it like it's nothing, but you hear it for what it is - a way for you and her to stay in and avoid your mom, the threat of responsibility - and the meat you helped prepare.

"Sounds good," you murmur. You don't thank her, but you're pretty sure she hears your gratitude, anyway.