papercut

9/3/19 - the beginnings of a story is somewhere in here? Definitely an example of a time i find myself wanting to write something, but unsure how to commit.

I did not hear our village being torn apart. I did not hear how the foundations of our quaint circle splintered alongside the bones of our people, nor the screams that reverberated throughout the town—bouncing from one broken home to another in the pattern of shattered glass. I did not hear how our conquerors cried for war in their strange, lilting language as they ran through the last hold, swords so fluid they sluiced through flesh..

No, my attention was focused on my mother as she tore paper. The fire flickered before us in the dark, our breaths damp and humid from the heat and proximity and summer. From above, mayhem reigned, and the earth shook with our conqueror’s footsteps, spilling dirt and debris onto our laps. Still, I paid it no mind, only stared at the way my mother’s fingers toyed with each sheet, fingering its edges until blood welled up from her fingertips, only to be stripped, one my one, neatly into the fire. The flames eagerly devoured the offerings, so too did they eagerly lick at my mother’s finger’s, grazing the bloodied nails.

It captivated me. A child’s awe.

My mother gathered me up in her arms, her long robes enveloping me just as much as her arms did.

“You’re safe, Dian.” she murmured into my ears. Her voice was as soft as a candle’s wavering flame, and it easily stoked the one in my heart. But there was an edge to it tonight. A ferocity that cut through her soft words that had me frozen in her arms. “My pride. You are our people’s pride.”

I did not understand it then, how her the quiver in her voice was not out of fear, but anticipation. I did not understand it then, that the drops of water that fell on my cheeks were not her tears, but an omen from above.

Later on, I would realize that there were no gods. Perhaps, there never was. There was nothing that was waiting for us, no Vale.

Only fire. Only me.