Here is part two! Yes, they are very small but I’m taking it step by step… Again, a warning to those Grammar Nazis… it’s unedited.
Tossing the plant over to a side, he sat on the floor. The sun was still at the peak of the sky, burning anyone who would dare challenge him. When would God call down a mighty storm? His people were crying and pleading. When would he call unto God, selfishly, for help? Was it time to give up? The lack of plates and food in his home, dusty, soot covered furniture and torn pages from an old diary – they all adorned a silent little home. Walking up to a small clay container, he poured some its contents on a tiny, stained cup. His hands shook with fatigue.
“Camille! Camille!” Lena’s voice filtered through the thinly woven cloth that divided each room from the other. “Mother is searching for you.”
He walked over to the door, scraping the floor with its uneven corner, he forced it open. “Lena, I thought you were at the early meet n’ greet.”
“Yes, we were, and you weren’t there. What’s wrong? My family is in debt to your parent’s… they promised to keep you safe.”
“My father was doing his job, you know that.”
“Camille… don’t do this. Let’s go.”
He turned away, but his attempts at hiding were thwarted by a soft tug on his dusty shirt. “Camille, please?”
Escaping her soft grip, he shooed her; slowly closing the door. Much to his dismay, she forced herself, halfway through. Staring blankly at her eyes, he turned around. “Do as you may.”
“Camille! Why must you be so stubborn?”
“Lena, why are YOU stubborn?” Tossing his cup at a small statue, holding the door to the living room open, he turned to her. She wouldn’t back down. “I don’t need anybody’s debt paid. My parents are gone. The debt has been settled. Go home.”
Silence ensued. A strong breeze shook the very foundation of the ill-maintained building. “Tomorrow, I’ll climb the mountain of God.” Camille’s eyes were burning with determination; a fire that engulfed Lena’s smile. “If God will not come to us, then I shall go to Him.”
That night, he sat by the well at the edge of the village. Holding his father’s diary in his hands, he read what he had gone through that faithful day: the day he died.
“Two hours till the break of dawn, my hands are numb, my lips are dry. The feeling running down my spine is ominous and depressive as the black, tar-like fluid that runs deep in my veins. The feeling of fire burning through my entrails is second only to the fear of leaving those whom I love the most, behind. Never forget that God watches over every one of us, lest we fall into despair, never forget to look up and thank him every time you find yourself staring up at His Mountain.”
Closing the book, he looked up at the bright lights that never seemed to fade away. God must surely know why his people are suffering so. God must know why he lost everything. God must know, he was sure of it.