From the Mixed-Up Google Docs of Ata: Weaving

Weaving

She watches from the floor as skilled, calloused hands weave a bright blanket. Sometimes, she is allowed to help hold the yarn. (She always strokes the unfinished blanket, she wants it to remember that she helped).

Weaving

The blanket is almost done, spreading over the taut strings of the loom. Red. Cream. Blue. Pink. She hides beneath, pretends it is her own little tent.

Weaving

She makes the tassels, they are red and cream and beautiful. She shows them to everyone. She carries them in her pocket until the blanket is finished. They look even prettier sewn on.

Weaving

She wants the blanket with her everywhere, it is so big she can barely carry it, but she staggers around with the fabric bunched in her arms. “Look at my blanket!”

Weaving

She runs to hide beneath the loom, dragging her blanket behind her, tripping over the pretty tassels. She leaves a bloody trail in her wake. Footprints from her small shoes glisten on the floor, red and sticky. Blood on the blanket. Blood on her hair. Her breaths are loud in her ears, she shoves the crumpled blanket against the wall and buries her face in it.

Weaving

They drag her from beneath the loom. She sobs, clinging to her blanket. They pry it from her little hands, she watches it fall, stained with smears of red.