Kicking off my shoes and untying my dirty apron, I walk over to my makeshift bed where I had placed the drawing of him, the reason for the bloody wound in my chest.
Setting down the lantern on the floor, I grip the thin paper, yanking it off the wall. “Love is not made for people like you, Dove. You are just a servant. That’s all you’ll ever be,” I hiss at Castor’s annoyingly handsome face, tearing the paper to shreds, the thoughts freely stumbling from my lips in this safe, solitary space.
I cannot tell you why my voice makes an appearance in times of solitude and shrivels up in the company of others. The priestessesassume it has something to do with the horrid scar marking my neck. Little do they know I lost the words to save myself long before I entered their company.
Sitting on the many thin blankets I’ve accumulated over the rotations to make a somewhat comfortable mattress, tears fall. Tears I thought had long dried up. I give them their moment to shine in the quiet of my small room, letting the rhythm of my sniffles and quivers lull my body into a fitful slumber.
Fourteen Rotations Past
“Stop. No. Pleeease—stop.” The same words repeat and mould together into a strange lyrical pattern in my mind. “Stop. No. Please. No. Stop. Stop. No, please. Stop.”
You would think he would grow sick of it eventually, but he does not. She screams, she cries, she begs and still he continues. Still the chorus goes around and around and around. My ears screaming for a new song. Anything—
I clutch my hands to my ears rocking back and forth in the small broom closet of our kitchen.
“Hey,” my sister hisses at me. “You want some jerky.” I see her head lurch back in the dark, ripping off apiece.
“No! How can you even think of eating when he’s like this.”
“When is he not like this? A girl has to eat,” she responds.
Gradually the sounds from outside the door diminish into hushed whispers making me cringe.
Later in the evening a shaking of my small frame wakes me.I was having one of my favourite dreams. The one with the black winged man who has the beautiful starry eyes. When he visits, we talk about everything—my sister, gardening, bugs. Pretty much all my favourite things. He makes me feel warm inside.
“Get up, we need to—” But, before she can finish the sentence a looming figure grasps her by the hair and hauls her back. Scrambling to my feet I try to shout for mother, but I get no answer. The struggle my sister puts up against our father, a large stocky man, is admirable. Their bodies illuminated by a single candle flame located on the side dresser. She kicks and scratches. She also goes in for a bite. I have to repress the urge to cheer her on.
My body trembles worse than a leaf in a blustering storm. I try to call my mother again, but I start to notice a problem—nothing is coming out of my mouth.
Before I know it a whirlwind of brunette hair is flying at me, grabbing my hand and pulling me along. Smoke billowing behind her from our tiny room.
I want to ask what happened—
Where’s mother? Where’s father?But my voice won’t cooperate.
My nostrils start to clog with ashen smoke making me cough.
We are about to exit through the front door of our small apartment in the west end of town when my sister is wrenched out of my arms again and back…back…back—into a heady wall offire.
I run through the cobblestone streets, the skin along my neck burning for attention, a courtesy I cannot give.He is after me. He got them.
Everything within me is sinking to unknown depths as I push myself to the only place I will find sanctuary. The only place I’ve ever known safety. A place where she will willingly accept me within her protection, no questions asked.
The air around me starts to smell of arid, scorched earth, smoke following me in my wake, bare feet slapping the hard ground.
My legs pump as hard as they can go, a sear working its way up my lungs.
I push myself forward until my feet touch polished stone steps, and I’m climbing, my thoughts only for her.The one Goddess will save me. She will welcome me with open arms. She will protect—
“Ooofff.” I run into something soft, almost tumbling back down the unbreakable steps.
“Got you,” a gentle voice says as my upper arm is grasped by forgiving fingers.
My eyes flick up, and I am met with ice-blue eyes in the smooth face of a child. He looks around my own age, and as I take in his yellow hair, ornate clothing and the smell of soap wafting off his skin, I know who he is.
I sway on my feet, and a forceful voice speaks behind us, “Castor, what did you find, son?”
five
