The Followers Of The Prophecy

Metal Arms and Broken Wings

It was dark. The ash and broken glass decorating the walls and floors only made it darker. The furniture was stolen, the family portraits were stained with dead memories and missing happiness. Nearly melted candles stuck on the floor in random spots, the only source of light. Their stable was flattened by an explosion, and it took the house's whole right wall. The little shojo showed us to the bedrooms at the back side of the house. There were four bedrooms, but she put one off limits, her sister's room. She said she put all her stuff in there. I peeked through the holes on the door, to have a quick view of the shrine the little glowing shojo had built for her. The bathroom, though not off limits, was almost in ruins, making it hard to use. The small shojo tried to think of ways to separate us into rooms. I told her that she could still sleep in her room, and we'll divide ourselves in the other two. Twyla and Venus in one, and Morgan and me in another.

"I don't want to sleep by myself anymore," she answered, just before Morgan could speak about her room placement.

We looked at each other. A quiet unanimous decision was made: the only mother in the group was to sleep with the child. Morgan said she didn't mind sleeping by herself, and even though we asked if she was sure, she insisted that she would be fine. The little shojo grabbed hold of my hand and led me into her room.

"It's not great," she said looking around. How the pink paint turned into ash and stains, "but it is my home. Look, my family is here too."

She picked up a broken family portrait, mostly blacked out in dirt and dust. She showed me her mother, father, and what her sister looked like "back when she was pretty," she said.

"What a beautiful family," I told her.

"Do you have a family?" she asked me.

"It's me and Morgan for now. She's the shortest one out of the group."

"But she doesn't look anything like you," she pointed out, "She has wavy long hair, and so many freckles and big eyes. You have hard hair."

I chuckled when she called my natural hair hard.

"And you're so pale, and your eyes are tiny and purple. She's not your daughter."

"You're very smart," I sat on her twin sized bed, "And you're right, she's not my real daughter. I'm her adoptive mother."

"What about before Morgan?" my heart sank. Curious child.

"Well," my heart pounded loudly, and I felt my armpits sweating, "I used to have a really big family. I had four brothers and three sisters, a dad and a mom."

"Did they die in the war?"

"I really hope not. But I don't know because I haven't talked to any of them in a really long time."

Seven years. It had been seven years since I last talked to any of my relatives. After years of them treating me like dust, pesky, irrelevant and bothersome, I decided to run away forever. They never cared about me being destined to this prophecy, or how dangerous it could be. All they needed was the floors cleaned, the children taken care of, and all the money I made. Most offensive of all, there were eight family members who let my father get away with anything. I always supposed they weren't even bothered that I never came back. How I wish it wasn't so.

"Oh, that's why you only have Morgan now," she laid down on the bed, and I fixed myself to give her space.

Instead of turning to her side, she slipped closer to me, and snuggled on my side. I felt her body on my breast, and something ignited in my soul. She placed her head on my heart, listening to my rapid heartbeats. A child felt safe with me. We stared at the wall in a long moment of silence. I peered down at her and she was visibly unkempt. Her clothes were tattered, I couldn't really tell what her skin color was, or even what her face looked like because of how dirty she was.