The Blessed Child.
Who was she? No, not "blessed". No she was cursed. What was the point of all her "blessings" when all she brought was death upon all? And the windows, the "windows", which she loved so much. No solace could be sought from gazing into its beautiful depths. As she sat, silent upon the floor, she thought.
The sound of waves impeaching upon the tower screamed throughout the building. Their relentless crashing, that didn't care. She stared out a window. There they were. The waves, like dragons upon an evil fortress.
Upon the tower of the evil witch.
The Blessed Child stared. What was that darkness that spread over the horizon? The darkness that blanketed everything except for the monstrous waves? How ignorant she was?
She laid herself back against the wall. There was a mirror. There. A mirror. She hadn't noticed it before in her grief and mad insanity. But now she saw it, hidden in the slight of a corner. She picked herself up, imagining herself as a puppet on strings.
The puppet lurched, and so did she. The puppet-her-swung its dry rag of bones in front of the mirror. The puppet stared at itself.
She was the puppet.
The puppet saw its clothes, dangling in rags, what once must've been an ornate skirt was now a pile of rags. The puppet's hand rose. The puppet touched its face. The puppet felt its face, dry like an Egyptian desert.
She was the puppet. That's all she felt she was.
The puppet stumbled and collapsed. The puppet shrieked. The puppet had brushed against a dead figure.
She willed herself to shed a tear. Just one tear. But she was a desert, and no matter how sad, there was no water to release.
The puppet stumbled back into view of the mirror.
"Hand", she whispered as her hand jerked.
"Finger", and her finger twitched.
"Arm", she glanced down towards her arm which jumped at her gaze.
"Leg" it moved, "Toe", it wiggled, "Foot", it twisted, "Face", "Eye", "Mouth", "Lip", "Dress", "Cloth"... the words continued to fly out of her mouth, dropping like stones. She named everything she could, rapidly, obsessed into her game. Finally,
"Me", she stared at herself staring at herself.
"Me", she pondered.
"What's me?" The Blessed Child turned, pointed at a slumped figure and chittered,
"Dad King Daddy Da Emperor Soveirgn", her tongue felt heavy, "Christophe"
The name slipped off her tongue. Her finger twisted and pointed at another figure.
"Mom Ma Queen Mommy Mammy Mam" then "Lifiera"
"Brother Bro Prince Duke Sibling... Noel"
Her finger swiveled upon herself,
"Me", she gasped, "Blessed Child. Princess." but a name didn't come. She racked her memory. But the only names she remembered from their mouths were "Sis, daughter, my child, love, hon" but none was a name. What was she?
Who was she?
A human. A voice inside her head snapped back at her. And a dozen words for 'human' shoved themself into her head. But none of them was the answer she wanted.
The name she wanted.
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What do you think? Please comment and critique. Will be extrememly appreciated :)
YOU ARE READING
The Blessed Child
FantasyA girl is born with the world at her feet, everything delivered to her hand, a perfect life. Yet she cannot find the small things others have. She struggles to find a sense of meaning, belonging, for love, and for a name.
