Rise

Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Wars! Characters like Luke, Leia, Han, and Darth Vader do not belong to me whatsoever--I am, by no means, claiming ownership of Star wars by writing this fan-fiction.

  ********************* 
What is legacy?

It's planting seeds in a garden

you never get to see.

  ********************* 

Red and black shadows stalk my dreams; they always have.

No one really knows me; they just call me that "sad, young lady in the streets". I don't necessarily live in the streets. But considering where I actually live, you wouldn't be too far from the actual thing. I live in an abandoned temple in the city. People here in Mos Eisley think that it used to be some training ground for an ancient order of old. I have no idea what that's all about. But it's where I've lived for a long time.

    It's been years since I've had a peaceful night of sleep; years since I've found comfort in the darkness that embraces one's mind. Some call me mentally unstable, or even "gone". I'm still not sure what they mean by "gone", but it doesn't sound too good.

    Each night is different, and yet horrifyingly the same...the same as in how my nightmares never stop, and every night, they come strolling up, knocking on my brain and letting themselves in without permission. The worst part is I can't tell them to leave; only they decide when they've had enough of torturing me.

Rumor has it that every night I wake up screaming for help. That's only half-true. I got past that point around two years ago. It used to be like that, but not anymore. People don't really seem to care, though.

I sometimes go days without sleeping. That's because I know what will find me if I close my eyes--bloody murder and darkness. But I guess that's the thing with sleep, isn't it? One has to sleep, eventually. Sleep is a predator, chasing you until you grow too tired to run any longer. Then, it pounces, imprisoning you in it's clutches until it decides to release you.

A lot of people like sleep. I used to, once upon a time. I used to sleep to escape from life. Doesn't everyone?

Thankfully, before my nightmare can grow worse, I wake up.

Happy, encouraging sunlight greets my gaze. I am relieved to see it. I'm awake, and I have survived yet another awful night. Each time I've woken up, for the past five years, has felt like a victory. Because if you had dreams like mine, you would consider yourself a survivor, too.

Sometimes, it feels like I've had these dreams since the day I was born. But really, I haven't. I've only had them since I was 16.

Somehow, I feel like they won't go away anytime soon. Or ever, for that matter. The thought of surviving a whole lifetime of nights like those exhausts me, and makes me want to scream until my final breath. It makes my very soul begin to shrivel up.

I stand, brushing gritty sand off of my shoulder, of which is sore from a night of sleeping on solid stone. I brush my hair back, so that it isn't in my face. A hot breeze sweeps past me, carrying with it the thick, odd smell of Mos Eisley.

    After five minutes of prepping myself, I sling my dark leather bag over my shoulder and walk out of the temple. I decide I'm not going to worry about my blankets, or my makeshift cups. Nobody would steal those--nobody but me even needs them.

    That's the thing about Mos Eisley. By looking at it, you can see that its a rough town. Full of bounty hunters, smugglers--you name it. But we all get along, in a sense, because only a certain type of person would ever come here. We're all used to living on the edge, and pretty much everyone has an unhappy backstory. It makes for lots of relation around here. We also almost all happen to have a temper.