The Right of Choice

by: Zo Friedman and Jordan Delgado

Green Group

Sun beats down on my back. I look out over the desolate, dying corn field, the dried up
pig pen, and the decrepit red barn. I smell manure and fertilizer, while I listen to Mary Anne, my
middle sister, playing hopscotch on the pavement and my youngest sister Elizabeth wailing on
the porch. As usual, Papas nowhere in sight; hes probably down at the pub, drinking away our
money. Momma died just after Elizabeth was born, and Papas been drinking and beating us ever
since.
The position of the sun indicates noon. My stomach contorts itself into a knot, and a
rumble, like distant thunder, echoes through my insides, rocking my entire body in rhythm. I
stand up suddenly, my heels sinking several centimeters into the muddy ground, and I cross the
yard to a bright, green bush adorned with black berries.
Elizabeth! Mary Anne! Lunch time, girls! I call over my shoulder.
My bare feet sense the soft footsteps of Mary Anne approaching. She wraps her thin arms around
my knees.
Julia, Im hungry. Berries again? Mary Anne squeaks.
Yes, dear. Some yummy black berries for your tummy, I say, poking her stomach with my
pinky finger. She giggles and reaches for a berry. I pack a handful of berries into my mouth, the
berries delicate flesh rupturing to reveal sweet, tangy deliciousness. I wipe my berry stained
fingertips on my faded overalls, creating five red streaks, and turn to walk slowly up two
splintering, wooden steps to the porch. Elizabeth sits on the porch, her wide, grey eyes staring up

at me. Bouncy, straw-blonde curls frame her round complexion. She looks mystified and mildly
confused.
Mamma? she whispers. Food now?
Lizzie, Im not your mamma. How many times do I have to tell you?
I lean down, seize her by the waist, and plop her onto my shoulders, carrying her down the steps
to where Mary Anne sits, a small heap of black berries resting on her lap.
Lets get you some berries, Elizabeth! You like berries? I ask her, setting her down next to
Marry Anne.
Yeah, mamma! she squeals, putting her two hands together in excited applause.
I sigh, shaking my head in disbelief. Just two years ago, a tornado swept through Greensburg and
claimed my mothers life as well as my childhood. Now, I carry a world of responsibility on my
shoulders.

When I think of home, that is what I used to think of. I was young at the time, maybe sixteen or
seventeen. Mary Anne was six, and Elizabeth had just turned two. Since Papa was out drinking
all the time, there wasnt any time for him to care for us girls; so that job was left to me. I always
made sure my sisters were fed and clothed. I made sure their hair was combed and that they got
bathed. I taught them how to behave and how to work hard. I played with them and dried their
tears when they cried. Up until I was seventeen, I always took care of my sisters, but I also had
to take care of the dying farm. Between taking care of the farm and raising my sisters, I had
minimal time for myself. I kept my straight blonde hair short at the chin and wore oversized
overalls. My green tiger-like eyes made my bruised face appear awkward and unnatural.

Even though I had spent my whole life on that desolate farm, all I could think of was the city.
Day in and day out, rain or shine, I would be thinking about buildings. Their structure, like a
giant metal skeleton looming over the city, an ambitious task for a young beginner, like myself.
But it had always been my dream to one day be an engineer. After I put Mary Anne and Elizabeth
to bed, many nights I would quietly light a few candles and sketch buildings and cities late into
the night, then fall asleep with visions of glowing cities I had designed.
Chicago became an obsession, and the open air of my withering farm became more and
more imprisoning. I lived on an island of isolation, my house rotting alongside my heart. And, as
my overalls slowly revealed more and more bare ankle, my passion for engineering only grew
too, like the wild blades of grass, stretching to scrape the sky. Father tried his best to restrain my
dreams, and every one of our encounters stands out vividly in my mind. I remember the night he
died, my first taste of freedom, as though it were yesterday.
It had been a stormy night. Drumrolls of thunder beat in the heavens, and brief flashes of
lightning illuminated a small, pitch black, shabby, room with a single, moldering chair. Two little
girls sat, clutching at each other, on the floor. Their bodies shook together in fear; dirty, brown,
water droplets dripped from their hair and splashed onto the threadbare carpet. I stood with my
back to my sisters, peering through a hole in the window to observe the dark, rolling plains
beyond. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated a figure a mere inche from the window. He
was male, judging by the broadness of his shoulders, and his right arm- or the arm corresponding
with my right arm (I was facing him), held up a long dagger. My stomach flipped over, and an
icy chill permeated through my insides, my heart making desperate attempts to escape from my
ribcage. For a moment, I stood rooted to the spot, completely paralyzed with fear.Then, the
mans lips twisted into an o and let loose a manic howl. He punched the knife through the

window, his knuckles spraying blood and glass shards as they made contact with my stomach. I
fell to the floor and sensed a dark, shadowy mass fly overhead. The man smelled strongly of
booze and reeled aimlessly for a second before collapsing on the floor. Gasping for breath and
eyes watering in pain, I groped in the dark and found my sisters, squealing like piglets. I yelled at
them to to run and hide for cover until I told them it was safe to come out again. Lightning shone
through the darkness for a brief second just long enough for me to size up the male figure on the
floor. My father...my father...dead. My father lay face up, his jungle of dirty, sopping wet tangles
serving as the pillow for his eternal rest. But I never really could tell my sisters what happened.
They were both so young After that, my distant alleged Aunt Sandra, whom I had never met or
heard of, came to take my beloved sisters away from me, to give them proper nourishing and
education.My eternal freedom thus began , as I set route for my own life, a good life, in Chicago,
not looking back once to my desolate family farm of which I had spent my childhood.

But it has been 10 years since then. Now I sit here in my small Chicago apartment, alone,
trying to write them a decent letter. My pen stands poised above the parchment, and I
contemplate my first sentence. My mind goes blank, and a blotch of ink drips from the pen and
stains the paper like a black hole. So many years have passed, I wouldnt think Mary Anne and
Elizabeth would even remember me. But I remember them. Their young smiling faces and the
way they were so innocent, so pure. Theyd be 16 and 12 now. Ive missed their growing up;
theyve gone from young girls to young women. I left when I was 16, so they too, have missed
much of my growing up. I am 26 now, and engaged to be married, and though I have many
friends to attend my wedding, I realize I have no family to invite. I stare once more at the
daunting pages in front of me, completely bare, save the pin-sized oily black ink stain from my
pen. I begin my letter.
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To my dearest sisters, of whom I have not seen in a long while. I write. But the words
seem awkward, and too upfront for a letter from their sister who they have not heard from in
many years. I crumple up the parchment and try again, this time introducing myself.
Hello Mary Anne and Elizabeth, this might come to a bit of a shock to you, so be
prepared. I am your sister, Julia Armstrong. I am 26 years old, and I live in Chicago. You might
be wondering- My fiance then walked into the study where I was writing my letter and
interrupted my thoughts.
Jules, I hope you are writing to your sisters. I would like them to attend the wedding.
He said. I replied, I know. I just dont quite know what to say to them. Theyre progressive
young women now, living with my distant Aunt Sandra. Theyre probably no longer into
hopscotch and tag, or coloring and dolls. Since they are young women, they must be addressed
as such. But, where then is my position in accordance to them? Do I address them as a stranger
would; heartless, disconnected, and businesslike? Or perhaps, as friends, casual but not
connected? Maybe so far as family, which they are, but cannot quite establish them as such. It
has just dawned on me that perhaps, I knew them once before, but I dont know them any longer,
and that they dont know me. Though I raised them with a mothers hand, they dont know me.
As I came to this sad realization, my once strong bond with my sisters finally deteriorated.
Without the presence of my sisters, they were now but a wisp in my memory, a miniscule grain
of sand in a myriad desert. Over time, they simply melted away to nothing.