A drabble. They complete me. XD
As a child I wasn't given much choice. I never had the chance for normalcy. The cards I was dealt in life were unsatisfying. I thought of other children and how lucky they were, how happy they must be.
It pissed me off.
I hated them for getting everything they wanted, while I was buried deep within the sands of time, left with nothing. It never occurred to me what an honor I was given. I could only think of the sacrifice. I was the sacrifice. My life was the sacrifice. My blood was shed for an entirely purposeless reason. It was a time where I hated everything.
If I had to be miserable, why not the rest of the world? Why not the rest of the children? What made me so deserving of this horrid fate? The Gods surely had mercy within them to put me in a better place, so why not had they?
My sister would tell me time and time again to count my blessings but I could never think of any. The fact that the sun rose and set each day meant nothing to me, for I couldn't see it anyway.
The billowing, foamy clouds I had only seen once in my life, when we snuck out. Against the bright blue skies, the white pillows looked so comforting. Everything was bright whereas everything in my environment was dark and gloomy. The smells inside our corridors were musty, like a tomb. It was a tomb. Our tomb. The free land above however, the smells were clean and crisp, and the wind was cool. Everything about the land above was appealing.
And yet I was forced into a life of seclusion. I hated it. I hated my family. I hated my life.
Ishizu never understood me. She would try to, but I would be impatient with her. She was oblivious.
Rishid was not my real brother, although I treated him as such. He would speak to me, share in my pain, but soon I would be alone again, alone to reflect upon my own feelings and my own hatred.
But then one day, I wasn't alone. There was someone with me. Some…thing.
It wasn't a person like you and I. It wasn't someone who you could have a conversation with. It was like a feeling. But it wasn't just a feeling because I could see it. It wasn't a tangible object. But I felt like I could see it. And it could see me. I know, because it watched me.
I would ask it questions all the time. I'd experiment with it. To see if it could converse and touch. It could not do either at first. Not in the beginning. It couldn't move either. It was like a stationary shadow that would mimic my actions, but I knew it was more than just a shadow. At one point I reached my hand out to the side of my cot, holding my hand very still. I didn't expect to feel anything. I would suck in a breath, be very still and quiet, waiting for something cold and maybe slimy to drag across my palm. I didn't know what it might feel like.
But I never felt anything. I'd sigh with relief and roll over under my sheets. But I could still feel it watching me.
On the day of my ritual, my 12th birthday, I'd been dragged to my father's chambers, kicking and screaming and crying, begging Rishid to come save me. I was strapped to the table, my clothes torn off of me. All I could see from my tear stained eyes was my father standing over me, dagger in hand with a malicious sneer on his face, as if he took joy in slicing open his son's back.
It was on that day, I lay on my bed, hiccupping, crying, tears cascading down my face like waterfalls. A bloodier waterfall soaked my bandages on my back. My sobs were uncontrollable. Through my tears and pain I found strength to reach out my hand, laying it over the side of my cot.
I felt it grab my hand, and in a shushed tone, tell me to sleep.
The next time I woke, my father was lying in my arms dead, blood-soaked and maimed.