The dictator stood towering above everyone else, his balding head gleaming from the incoming rays of light and his graying hairs disorderly, as if he hadn’t combed them for days. “You must not direct me, but listen to what I have to say,” he ordered with a stern, booming voice. His woman was in the kitchen, tirelessly working away with the creation of the afternoon lunch. She had bags under her eyes, presumably from the countless orders the dictator cast upon her. But she was strong. Her arms were made of stone and her tears had long-dried up. She could cry no more. And she wouldn’t.
The little girl sat at the table, humming, still young and carefree of the dark world around her. She plucked flowers from a bouquet–red the color of passion, red the color of fear, and red also the color of happiness. “You must do it properly,” the dictator commanded. “There’s always a technique,” he continued. The little girl listened. She tried to be the best she could to impress the Dictator. Little did she know that her freedom would always be restricted…
The little girl hopped down from the table and skipped up to me. “You’re the best,” she said. “I love that you protect me from his anger.” I smiled and tightly hugged the girl in appreciation. Her big, dark brown eyes sparkled with delight and admiration as she grabbed some pieces of paper to draw on. The little girl drew herself with messy purple hair, a purple torso, an orange face and arms with pink hands and a pink pair of pants. She drew two circles for the eyes, empty but eager and below that was a smile, happy just like the little girl.
The little girl soon tired of drawing. She ran out of the room to grab a book. She carefully turned each page and longingly admired each illustration. Her imagination ran wild as she created a story in her head to explain each picture she observed. Although she couldn’t read the words so strategically placed across each page. She would read to herself, waiting for me to read to her later.