Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
all women become like their mothers. that is their tragedy. no man does, and that is his. unknown.
SHMI SKYWALKER, DID YOU KNOW?
Shmi Skywalker is bathed in blood. Rivulets of ruby run down her thighs like rivers of fire. Her womb reduced to shreds as it gives way to life. Cruelly. Wretchedly. Agonizingly. She buries her own hands deep inside of her and wrenches the clawing little thing from her uterus. She screams and she screams and she screams. When she severs her own umbilical cord, she swear she can see the sun.
Her hands shake violently as she holds the newborn baby, a wailing, innocent thing. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her baby life, she has already killed her.
The child is doomed from the beginning. Her mother's love will not save her from the suffering.
The daughter is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleeding animals whose blood will one day be spilled into the name of what demands it. The breaking dawn is silent with anticipation.
SHMI SKYWALKER, DID YOU KNOW?
Scraped knees, split lips, split knuckles, split heart, four year old Anakin Skywalker clings desperately to his baby sister. Blood smears her face and stains his fingertips. She cries and she cries and she cries. There is something horrifically biblical about the sound.
"My brave boy," Shmi croaks, slumping into the thin blanket shoved in the corner of the stables. "You have a sister."
The desert child gazes at his sister, screaming and covered in their mother's blood. War paint. Her bright eyes are twin globes of fire. Holy fire. Hell fire.
