The Oblivion

the affliction

I EXAMINED THE curvy lines on my sweaty palm, my eyes trailing down the blisters and filth. I wondered how I gained those marks so quickly and adjusted to this new life rapidly. The new life of being the one to feed my family, risk my life hunting, and mourning the loss of my sister.

If there was one way to explain what I learned after the past burdens in my life, I knew one thing. Sacrifices and deaths can weaken a person, or take away parts of them. To diminish them.

But it can't destroy them.

The beginning brings so much affliction and waves of flashbacks to me. The whole theory of reminisces meant absolutely nothing to me. I wonder how a person can live such a peaceful, endearing life, so far away from the truth. To be diverted. It turned my head, it turned everyones head.

Such invincible memories cannot be famished or lived the way they were. I can never bring the past back, no matter how hard I try. But so much has changed, and technology is past limits.

But I need to go back.

I snapped back into focus.

The loud demands of my parents turned into a faint murmur in my ears as I pondered about my daily life, the tedious receptive occasions that were never new. I always knew what people would say, how they would react.

But theirs only one thing that always seems odd to me, too elegant for human taste. Human or animal, he's always different.

Arch, my wolf.

Wolves were just dirty carnivores for people who resented the wildlife beyond fences, but to me, he's a loyal companion to trust.

His fur stood out idly, and his pelt that I never had to groom once, was star woven to anyone who set a pair of eyes on him. From his paws up to his chest he is extraordinary, his lethal size and frosty, healthy fur. But above his neck is above extraordinary. Through the meanings of curiosity, hate, love, fear and all emotions is a set of beautiful lens. Sometimes I gaze into his eyes into a fixed stare and go through a journey in his eyes, the walk of arctic mountains and the true meaning of hope. Indifference and impassiveness is either invisible behind his wall of thoughts, or in his world, there is no such thing as those two.

Outside the barrier of starry skin and glazes of glares a boring life is behind it.

Behind the scenes are my parents.

My father, Dylan Coalers, was envied by other village people. Father worked as a fine shooter with his powerful, recurve bow. As well as me, he also hunted for dinner. Very poorly, he became too tiered to help, so I had to hold the power of dinner in my knife. Even as I sleep, I feel the exhaust of the ubiquitous animal sounds and grasshoppers surrounding me in the forest.

My world of love rested on his shoulders. Beyond anyone else, my father was the apple of my eye, my leader, the whole source and deep core of my life. For many years I would ask myself what possibility is there of living without him.

Arch whined at my ankles, his fur brushing my ankles pleadingly for food.

"Cimber, go and hunt for food. I know hunting isn't your favorite, but we need you, don't we, Dylan?" Mother hissed impatiently in contempt, tapping her bitten fingers on the kitchen table. She wasn't a patch on beauty, though she must have had fair hair when she was young, although she just hauls it up to a limp bun. I gave her another glare to show her how grudgingly I was going to hunt, then took Fathers bow that was drunkenly lying sideways next to the rotten cabinet; then I took my fatal knife. I usually take Arch to hunt with me, as he could also catch rabbits, but Mother didn't allow this as his teeth may have dirt or bacteria. I left him wolfing down the meat and ran out of the house. Fresh wind whipped my skin, slapping my face ferociously. I squinted my eyes and peered around. Everyones poor lights were still on, lighting up the windows. I glanced at Tim The Wood Chopper, who noisily chopped wood all day. I don't know how his ears resist not popping out when doing that. I often heard the noisy thunk of the wood being split, and I would cover my ears in annoyance. Then I looked over to Daisy, the young girl who sold beautiful wool for women to knit. I heard that she made a huge fortune. Daisy had a loud, strong voice to attract young woman to buy her feminine products, with a way of words to persuade people to buy her materials. My gaze then swept to Mr Mitchen's house, Miss Brinquid, Mrs Humphley... and on and on. I snapped back to action and kept running through the village, with a feeling of exhilaration and adrenaline. Some people looked in my direction and smiled, knowing that I was off to hunt. Having the talent to hunt in a wilderness was passed around the whole village, and no one knew any other young girl who hunted in the wild.