Oranges.

Oranges were the first fruit to fall that spring. Fresh, round, ripe balls of sunshine; glowing with fallen pride. I remember sinking my teeth straight through the skin, right into the juicy flesh. Screaming eyes haunt my dreams. The sundried grass tickled my toes through the gaps in my leather sandals; each blade a tiny feather. I remember bending down; wrenching up handfuls to feed the goat. The metal sliced her head, exposed bone preys on the eyes of my memory. Lifting up our bright skirts; racing after the early traders shouting laughter, entwined fingers as we panted for breath. Her last screams of agony; her defence of justice! I can barely breathe – I remember the sunrise that morning, more clearly than I remember anything. The gold seemed more regal than ever; the purple especially magnificent. Her death is on my hands; her blood smeared across the empty cavern of my torched heart.