You stand there, chest heaving, immobile
From Create Your Own Story
The boy giggles with delight and scampers out into the street.
"May you and your stupid rat burn in Hell!" you shout after him. You readjust your gown, making sure you're fully covered this time, while whispering a quick prayer asking forgiveness for cursing the demonic child and his rodent. Your breathing now somewhat under control, you bang sharply at the wooden door, which opens with a creak. The mother waits inquisitively in the doorway.
You express your concerns as well as you can in your forty word Slavic vocabulary, gesticulating wildly when you're unsure of a word (you're unsure of all of them).
"Good this no. Dirt - dirt round hard -"
You point vigourously at the rock...
"- in throw children - in throw - light square mine -"
You lean over the woman's shoulder into the room and jam your finger repeatedly at the window while you remember with dismay that you only know four numbers in Slavic (and can't count past your ten fingers at all - the actual number of the Twelve Apostles remains a mystery to you)...
"- up sun time - sleep me no - two and one time in last two and five day time - stop life maybe me -"
You mime smashing the rock against your forehead and loll your head over with your tongue stuck out...
"- me hap - no, ehmcomesidicescusamisignorachefaccioschifo - me sad much."
You tug the corners of your mouth down with your fingers and anxiously wait to see if the woman understands even a word.
The woman stares blankly at you for what seems like an eternity; your mouth is starting to hurt. Finally, she nods, and appears to have understood at least something of what you said - you sigh with relief and massage your sore jaw.
"Siorina, ciapa," she says, and holds out her hand. This time you stare, bewildered, until you realize that she just spoke what likely amounts to her entire Istrian vocabulary in her thick Slavic accent.
She points at the rock; you give it to her.
She hefts it in her right hand, throws the door wide open with gusto, bellows an unkind-sounding Slavic word and hurls it at her husband.
Your shoulders slump in defeat and you pad back up to your room, not even flinching as a chair flies out of the room behind you and smashes against the wall. At least she understood the part about killing - your speech is improving.
Back in your room, you remember the latrine, but decide to change first this time.
