He probably won’t actually kill me until after dinner. I stared down at my plate, taking stock. Green things and dead meaty things for sure, maybe poisoned things. But I was hungry, if I was going to die, I wanted a full belly.
“Child, what are you called?”
I jerked my head up. The man called Uncle watched me from across the table, his knife poised above his own food. He is not actually my uncle, his jaw is square, mine is sharp. Uncle is just what he is called.
I’m called a lot of things. Child. Brat. Oi you. Girl. Nothing had stuck yet.
I mumbled one of those things and looked back to the plate. Poison didn’t make sense anyway. When Uncle’s soldiers crushed my father’s skull and kicked his body until it didn’t even look like him, they didn’t use poison. If Uncle wanted to, he could just tell his soldiers to crush my skull and kick my body. Besides, he looked like someone who didn’t like ruining dinners. I speared a bit of green and ate it.
“You’ll need something better, child” Uncle said.
I frowned at Uncle when he wasn’t looking and started eating quickly in case the crushing and kicking came sooner than I expected. My brother called me sister, and my mother never called me anything. But, according to my dead father when he’d still been able to talk, they were far away and of no concern to us. But I don’t like being called child.
“Momo.” A nonsense sound, repeated twice. And simple, like me.
“Hmm.” He made the sound deep in his throat. “Childish, but alright, Momo.” I didn’t care if he liked it or not. If he was going to kill me, he was waiting until after dinner, and that was good enough for me. Momo.
A victim-less crime at the moment, I stole the first line of this post for the Legal Theft Project.