Translation

by Kathy Kachelries
August 17th, 2005

Her name was Bianca. She was thirteen.

She only spoke French. No one spoke French. The resistance brought her here after she’d been hit by a Federated tank. The gash stretched from her ribcage to her hip, opening up like a silent and thirsty mouth.

I realized, after the third hour, that there was nothing to be done. I offered her tea. She was crying a lot.

I didn’t remember being thirteen.

“It hurts,” she said, and my mind flickered.

“It’ll stop soon,” I replied, pulling my knees to my chest. I was nineteen then. I’d been a medic for eleven months. No one had died before. I touched my fingers to her throat but the space where her pulse should have been was weak and erratic like a dripping faucet.

I thought of offering her painkillers, but didn’t.

“How do you speak French?” she asked.

“I speak everything.”

“I wish I could do that.”

“It’s not really worth it,” I said as I stared at the dark red stains beneath my fingernails. The funny thing about words is that they will evaporate in six hours and forty-nine minutes. After that, she’ll speak the same language as everyone else.

“Can I go home now?”

“You probably shouldn’t walk,” I said. She weighed ninety-three pounds. I wondered if I could carry her body to the alley.