Page 107 - RKJ 2019 Online Flip Version

Nida’s Tale
by Micah Rodney
FFVIII Logo Speedpaint
Melissa Bergemeier (Faris) “Four ration cards this week,” came the tired voice of Father.
Nida had come to recognize that defeated tone in his voice. As the
splintered wooden door fell shut, the boy was not at all surprised to see
the dour expression and the slumped shoulders. The olive-green coat
was in tatters, and the brown scarf moth-eaten. The overall impression
was of a man who had been partially consumed. Life had, quite literally,
chewed him up and spat him back out. This was the way he’d come
home every day for as long as Nida could remember.
“They can’t be serious,” Mother said, running a partially-mildewed
sponge along the lip of a cheap plastic cup. The dingy yellow was one of
the few dishes they had left, and they had to make it last, despite the
variety of stains.
“Of course, they are,” said Father. “Hungry citizens are docile
citizens.”
Mother gave a cautionary look in Nida’s direction. The boy hated this.
What Mother was implying was all too obvious: this talk is too grown up
for him. They acted as though the child was still a baby, living in the hazy
fantasy of semi-awareness. He was seven now. And years under martial
law matured a person two-fold.
He brushed the dirty brown hair out of his face and sat up straight. His
back pressed against the hard, wooden kitchen chair, and his hands
folded atop the cracked round table. He did his best to seem “grown up”.
Compared to his thin mother and his slouching father, he thought he cut a
pretty impressive figure.
“I’m not a child anymore,” Nida said resolutely. “You can tell me.”
Father’s miserable look shifted slightly. Nida had noted the distinction
from a very young age. It was subtle, but whenever Father looked at him,
he didn’t seem sad in quite the same way. He wondered if he felt
somehow responsible for their plight. Why? Father hadn’t fought in the
Resistance. It wasn’t his fault that the people of Timber were treated like
criminals.
“They’re letting ten students attend Garden this year,” Father said, his
eyes darting over to Mother who had slowly begun to rub her cheek. “Six
to Galbadia, two to Trabia, two to Balamb. Only children of non-
Resistance members.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I would say they wanted to separate us
from our children,” Mother said, sitting down beside Nida.
Before Nida knew what was happening, she was pulling him into a
hug. Despite Nida’s earlier confidence, these were some new words.
Garden? Did Father mean like the vegetable garden mother grew in the
backyard? And what were Trabia and Balamb? Nida recognized