15

SASHA I can’t breathe. My feet refuse to move, and my heart thunders in a rhythm so intense, I’m surprised it hasn’t ripped its way out of my rib cage and spilled at my feet. Invisible hands claw harder at my throat the longer I stare at the man’s face. I wouldn’t have missed it if I’d tried. I couldn’t. The sight of his round face, thick build, and half-bald head is engraved in my memories as if I saw him yesterday. He was at our house a few days before the massacre. My brother and cousins didn’t know, because they were forbidden from the office area, but I snuck about with Mama when she was bringing them drinks. I hid by the wall and saw this same man sitting on the chair with a nonchalant coldness while Papa and my uncles spoke heatedly. The reason I could never forget his face is because of the psychopathic-like disinterest he held for the whole conversation. I didn’t hear much because Mama quickly shut the door and shooed me away, but I heard Uncle Albert ask in a supplicating ton