Erlebnisse

Between

     [This was not the beginning, they have repeatedly told me. This chapter was only a continuation, the start of the end to a beginning I still cannot remember. But not to me. In my scrambled mind, it shall always start here in the town of Grécuain, with pastries and endless snow-like fields, and a girl haunted by another's sins.]

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     With my own screams still ringing in my ears, I lean into him. He strokes my gnarly hair without reserve, humming an ancient tune that glides over my shattered eardrums. I need to leave. I watch my father's hand drop from mine as he exits the room for his second plantation shift. He takes all the slippery sunshine with him. But he has left my treasure resting in my palm, a summer-green metallic square with strange runes. He says I found it in a field when I turned six. I finger the upraised markings, forcing my thudding heart to beat in time with the cyclical motion.

     But last night's vision begins to seep through my brain and out my eyes, and my comfort square will not be enough. I rush to one of my six windows and fling back the thin curtain. Expecting a blinding waterfall of sun, I almost scream in frustration at the pale silver light trickling through the mist. I gulp for air, but breathe in only darkness, the darkness and the metallic red drowning any coherent thought.

     A shiver skitters down my spine at the thought of the mist curling around the hellish scene I have just escaped. My own warmth., I need my own warmth, must find something happy. Casting aside the square, I stumble to my small dresser and yank open every drawer. My hammering heart keeps pace with me as I toss out dress after dress. With horror, I remember my only bright outfit hanging outside to dry. If I cannot find something bright, the shadows will move closer. I whirl around, and already that filmy morning light is shrinking back, making way for the mist and the dark.

     The scream rips past my lips this time, and echoes around this battlefield of a room. The cloaked figure from hell stirs behind my eyes, a rasping voice speaking of dark, starless skies: -I can take them, too.-

     "No," my voice rises to a screech, "I won't let you!"

     And then she is there, slipping behind my shoulder and wrapping her life-worn hands around mine. Comforting. Healing. Firm. My mother pulls me against her bird-like body, that gentle touch in sharp contrast to her words.

     "Stand up tall, child. Pick a dress, lace up your boots, and fight back."

     Blinking hard, I straighten my body, force my quaking fingers to latch onto an auburn dress dripping dull orange, and slowly pull it from my drawer. My mother reinforces my shaky movements as I pull the dress over my head.

     "There are warm eggs downstairs," she explains, "waiting for a beautiful, brave girl named Mistoryn Obliss. Let me know if you find her."

     I can hear the dimples in her cheeks as she smiles, a tiny wisp of a smile meant for me and for her, and for this "beautiful, brave" girl with fearless eyes. Still, I always find her and bring her downstairs with me to make my mother happy. The two of us wave goodbye to my mother and the cottage as we run away, far away from the dark and the bloody bodies the cloaked figure leaves in his wake during the nightmares.

     The girl with her fearless eyes promises me my mother and father are not among the bodies. How does she know?

     At last the path meets with the main road leading to town. I pass a group of women discussing recent cotton sales and trading flighty cottonlucks. Do the winged creatures actually bring a good harvest? I do not know; my father has never had the heart to keep a caged animal at our cottage, be it a Whimsic or a simple field bird.