Bill Foster was digging trenches to create an irrigation system for a small wheat field he was planning. He paused and straightened up, grimacing at the sharp pain stabbing at his lower back. It had been giving him problems for months now. Jean worried, but he couldn't afford to see a doctor, and besides it would mean a long drive into town and the loss of a day's work. He just had to get on with it. Still, help should be arriving any day now, and that would ease things up a bit.
The evening was softening into night when Mumbir arrived at the farm. Her escort seemed eager to escape before darkness disguised the way, and so he hurriedly introduced her to a year of utter loneliness and longing.
This morning Jean had risen before dawn, feeling refreshed. This was the best time of the day when the air was still clear and cold. Some days she felt as if the heat was smothering her in its bosom, but these mornings kept her alive. They were the only moments she could steal to please herself and dream that she was not callused-hands-and-workboots Jean, but that she was Jean the artist, who spent her days by the River Seine creating paintings that would be hung in the Lourve where people would crowd around and coo over her radiant talent. Dreaming, she began covering a fresh sheet of paper with her precious paint. She longed for a large white canvas on which to paint a masterpiece, but she was fortunate that Bill had even allowed her the paints. They were so expensive a luxury they could ill afford. She dreamt of slashing thick arcs of colour without considering the expense, of letting the paint take her where it willed. Instead she watered it down and used every scrap on her palette.
The days blurred and merged into each other and became months. It was only fleeting moments shared with the Foster's little boy that kept her heart alive. He was four and had a halo of blonde hair that felt like the soft down on a rosella's underside. Occasionally when Mrs Foster wasn't looking Mumbir would smile at him and he would giggle coyly in response. But if Mr Foster was around she would keep her eyes down. Waiting for the curses and the accusations, waiting for a black eye, a split lip, the taking of her blood. She told herself that soon, one day, her mahmi would come and take her away. She told herself that her mahmi still loved her. She told herself these things repeatedly and waited in silence.
It was the day when the pea flowers started blooming that Mumbir would never forget. She was busying herself outside on the balcony, waiting until the Fosters had finished their meal before she was allowed to eat, usually the left overs. She was sweeping the wooden floors when the house erupted in an angry cacophony of voices that spat the little boy out of the door. His face was coated in tears. She knew this feeling well, and sat down on the floor beside him.
The little boy's sniveling quietened as he clasped his two dimpled arms firmly around he waist. Rocking, rocking, Singing, singing.
She didn't die, but she was beaten for wanting to. The next time she knew better. She took his razor blades and hid inside the chicken coop where no-one would find her for hours Then she slowly drew brilliant ribbons from her arms that wove and splashed onto the straw. The chickens clucked and scratched for food, unmindful, whilst she watched her being escaping her body, until its image became cloudy.