『♢ Tнειя εиd ιѕ ƒιχεd тσ тнειя вεgιииιиg; αѕ тнε ƒlαмε ιѕ вσυиd тσ тнε cσαl - Aиd тнε εмвεяѕ тσ αѕн.♢』
❛ Tнιѕ ιѕ иσω вσиε σƒ мч вσиεѕ, αиd ƒlεѕн σƒ мч ƒlεѕн: ѕнε ѕнαll вε cαllεd... ❜
Whispers, shouting – No, the racing folly of thoughts unbound, malignant. Festering anxieties erode will to make way for the ever-pressing surge of ecstatic liberation of ego and mind. To what is the purpose of such tools to one who could never grasp, only reach out in relented wants and vain desperation. One would know to ignore the scent of temptation and beckoning warmth that waited yonder, for the punishment of such frivolities was carved deep into flesh. To even flirt with the concept of emotion was the gravest of sins, and she knew that all too well from the marks left from her naivety. The rigid weight of oppression was unforgiving to all which dared defy. To look up or move without permission promised the harshest of beatings. To dare take one crumb more than given or an iota of water would be met with the crack of bone to ensure one would not steal. To cry would only gift reason to do so. And to speak? She saw what had happened when they did, the blood on chin and if willed the anger, blade to tongue.
What else to do but to sit in silence and wait, defying the urge to take part in youthful joys dangled as carrot by the stick that led to woodchipper. If she knew any different, even the concept of the outside world let alone the kiss of sunlight, perhaps even then. But no – What purpose would it serve to have hopes of that which does not exist. She was alone, not a soul for comfort nor warm embrace. Not always; there was another who existed within this place who looked so much like her, yet she did not know why. If they had a name she would know it, but even she was not granted the privilege of such things.
❛ Ðσѕт тнσυ киσω α мσтнεяѕ ωαямтн, нεя тσυcн? Tнε ѕσƒт νσιcε тнαт ѕιиgѕ ѕωεεтlч lυllαвιεѕ тσ cαlм тнε нεαят? ❜
The time spent together was silence, furtive glances rarely given as one was taught to keep eyes down, and to never dare look up. What was she like? The other one. That one was at least of use, always being told how well she did yet receive no less beatings. She would be taken as usual, sometimes gone for hours, sometimes days or even weeks if they had any meaning. They both did, stuck in the perpetual loop of servitude and brief encounters that wrought only the deepest of sadness. Perhaps she had it worse; the myriad scars and burns compelled such thoughts. She had them, too, but not as many. The ones she hated the most was the needle, so many of which dotted her she could never count them had she ever knew the concept of numbers. It wasn’t the sharp prick she feared but rather the deluge of euphoria and unspeakable agony, never knowing which prick beckoned warmth or what set her insides ablaze. Would she be granted reprieve? Or be sent into malicious delirium that threatened the breaking of mind yet never following through. At least during these times, she was granted permission to speak, rather scream, enough to tear her vocals so that the mere thought of forming words hurt.
❛ Wнч cαит чσυ вε lιкε нεя? Wнч мυѕт чσυ cσитιиυε тσ lινε? ❜
Words heard so often they lost meaning when pointed at her; the ones clad in white coats and stern looks oft spat far venomous words at her if she was lucky enough. They were all the same, at least to her who never dared to glace up or make eye contact. White on white on white, the only time colour crept its way into her purview was blood spilt, and to even dare do such things only furthered the beatings. Such a small thing, yet so resilient. They had a harder time breaking her than the others, yet they still tried plenty, finding and exploiting every part of her weaknesses. A strong body yet frail constitution she had. Not a stranger to the constant bouts of sickness that perhaps was the product of her situation, but still, something more. It was no pathogen or curse, simply the luckless lot of cards drawn and the mere incompatibility of body and blood.
No matter how hard they tried, the wounds inflicted were mere scars by the end of days. An ability to heal one’s wounds at such a rapid rate was indeed a novelty and a unique thing to experiment on and perhaps obtain for those nameless shadows that toyed with her like a marionette. She hated herself for it and oft detested her body for not letting her die despite fear. The worse it got, the more they pushed, so oft inching to the edge that the maw of death was the first and deepest of the fears she truly felt aside from the perpetual violence she had grown numb to.
❛ Iт ѕнσυld нανε вεεи чσυ ωнσ dιεd. ❜
More than anything, the mere sight of such sent her into visceral panic. But for such a concept that bares no corporeal form to be so complete in its manifestation was that woman. She was far taller than the others and spoke so sweetly despite the glimmer in her eyes. Only once did she take sight of it, but it wasn’t the cold, unadulterated cruelty that plummeted her stomach or sent the deepest of cold through her. Nay – It was simply because they looked exactly like hers. Every part of her did save for the countless scars. Another person unknown yet so oft lingered. The mere sight of her harkened callousness and the all-consuming dread that entailed only the vilest of torments.
The dim dance of flame flickered light enough to paint the image of sodden cave and open maw to frosted forest. Whistling gales sent shivers through body that huddles close to fire. Locks of pallid mauve and gentle pink fluttered as the woman shifted to place another branch onto the fire. The illuminated disfiguration was only masked by darkened garb that hung loosely over her form, hiding the cruel price of her arrogance. The vein of sickness and fatigue only endarkened the stifled beauty with malady and inexorable rot. As she oft did, she wore nary an expression, the aloof stoic expression that defined much of her youth between the bouts of anger and illness. Even as she grew and found her way to a place she wanted so badly to call home, found something she could call love. At first, baffling, unsure and uneasy about how to process and define things she did not know existed beyond the mocking opine of a child who knew nothing but bleached walls and bloody knuckles.
❛ Yσυ cαииσт мαѕк dεcαч ωιтн ѕмιlεѕ. ❜
Even now, with decades past, such a long expanse of time to mend wounds and forget that which haunts her. Those feelings never left, even when she met those who meant no harm, who offered warmth and all which she yearned for. It took years for her to even speak let alone trust, and even more for her to allow touch nor embrace. Slowly but surely time did its best to assure her safety. She had grown ever stronger, learned so much of the world, met so many people, felt the pangs of loss and the heights of joy. The love of family. Pride, elation, sadness, all colours of emotion and experience that oft overwhelmed her, now a vivid inversion of what she once was. No matter how long it had been, she could never bring herself to speak of it, only the vague mention or perhaps lies made to hide the pain.
The mere thought of her secrets being known sent her into fitful panic mired with guilt and shame. Was it wrong for her to keep such things locked away? Knowing that she was on borrowed time but perhaps hoping against all hope she was finally able to escape. Yet the creeping sense never left, ever snaking coils around her neck and whispering promises of its return, promises of her becoming that which she fears the most. Mocking and chastising her for her sins. For her existence. For her being the one who survived and not the girl who she did not know.
❝ Mother... ❞
