Age of Agony

3

"Does your scars hurt?" Philomena asked.

From the mirror I could see her curious twinkling eyes as I comb my hair revealing my back. The barrel of her eyes studying every detail of it.

"A friend once said," I began "scars do not ruin the body but is earned by people who knows life and the pain it carries."

"The one by your wrist, did it hurt?" Her small and gentle hands traced the dwindling scar.

"No, it didn't." I simply answered "What hurt me most is the judgement I received after the cut had been made."

Judgement of the Ordo Sancti had scarred me deeper than any wound. To bestow upon me death because of a vision from the keeper of fate; to seperate me from my family; to lead me astray and leave me without honor.

My name Amos, tarnished and defamed. It left me no choice but to escape the delirium of the temple.

Bleeding I left the sanctum and ran through the darkness. I could still feel the rush in my veins, the crisp forest floor and the pale moonlight guiding me somewhere, nowhere.

I ran till I was out of breath. By dawn my blood had dried and my skin was a shade of blue.

I woke up to unfamiliar faces under one roof. A family kind enough had taken a poor bleeding girl in their disturbed home.

A mother, a father and sweet Philomena. Sweet citrus and a delightful verdant pasture and in its midst a large cottage filled with affection; but agony hides behind such vision of life.

Philomena's family had also been left bleeding, a hole had been torn through their hearts. Their beloved eldest daughter, Carmel, had been part of a massacre.

"Carmel, you won't leave like my sister did?" Philomena gazed up at me. "Won't you?"

"I'll stay as long as you'll listen to my stories at night and promise to sleep afterwards." I caressed her smooth dark skin.

"I promise." She laid down the bed, tucking herself in the sheets.

It plagues me every night to pretend as if the soul of Carmel is my own. However distraught the family is I remain because it is the only logical path to take.

A scream.

Skin-crawling and ear-piercing scream sounded through the walls. It remained quiet for a moment and in the next the door had been pounded, it was beaten and kicked till it gave in.

"My lord," I held Philomena tight in our sheets.

The man stood, his figure towering and broad. His features were sharper in the candlelight, shadows dawned on his eyes.

"Come, or I'll burn this house and your family altogether." He breathed.

"My lord please," Mother reasoned "take anything but our daughter Carmel!" Her soft sobs echoed.

"You've lost your daughter once, you'll lose her again." His tone full of spite "Take a walk, maybe you'll find another actress as good as this one."

His calloused hands tightly grasped my wrist, I could feel Philomena slipping from my fingers.

"Carmel!"