I can feel the shadows closing in on me. It's a darkness that's engulfing my mind. My body is - wilting, despite the lengths I've gone to, trying to maintain myself.
In our quiet moments, Betina says that she feels it too.
I worry for the children. All three pots produced infants, and while I do my best to care for them, sometimes it seems like I can't even hear their cries. Like I'm lost in a fog that I can't recover from.
We produced another seed - but after consideration, we finally disposed of it. It wasn't as vibrant as the others ... if it even produced a child, could that child survive on his - or her - own?
The three who remain - we haven't registered them yet. We're not going to, not yet anyway.
It might be selfish, but I want them to grow up without the bias of their 'peers.' They'll be alone, having only each other for comfort.
Betina stitched together some stuffed bears.
Our time is coming.
I'm - scared.
We've dug a hole for ourselves. A grave, of sorts.
The children don't need to witness our passing, however long - or short - it may be.
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