The Author Games: Literature

Esther Tehnos' Tornado

An iron grip, unmovable, clutched a book in Esther's hands; a firm gaze, distant, shone in her eyes; a feeling of incompleteness, troubling, whirred in her mind.

She knew the feeling, for never had it been a stranger to her, yet never had she sought out its identity - in her mind, Esther began to search her life, seeking the answer.

Vivid imagery flooded her mind - photographic memory stores the edges clean and sharp, no rust nor dust to adorn the images - and Esther shivered. She recalled a younger Esther, alone, hidden away in a dark, damp cupboard. In the little space there was, she rocked back and forth, hands clasped over her ears to block the screaming sounds of shattering, hitting and shouts, fresh tears forming endless streams down her cheeks. Then there was her, somewhat older, wandering the empty halls of her homes. Her brother always vanished to his work, and her mother was so ill.

There was a sudden lurch in her thoughts, like a stiff bolt turned by a wrench, and Esther's mind showed her memories far more recent. It was the moment she stood, solitary, on the reaping stage, wind blowing through her carefully brushed hair and her black dress, not one other willing to volunteer in Esther's place. She remembered the girl from Seven - Aspen - whom she had called a truce with, yet any form of alliance Esther had turned down. In the arena, she had walked utterly alone.

The wrenched again yanked on the bolt, and the feeling of incompleteness morphed into one of an empty satisfaction - for the ill was something that could not be removed.

Esther was alone, had always been alone.

Her hand lifted upwards and touched the wooden door in front of her, tracing the various streaks of differently coloured browns under the smooth exterior, Esther's emotions detached. Her fingers drifted over the edges of her shadow, casted in front of her by the bathe of moonlight. There were a few moments after that seemed to cloud over, a muddle of thoughts and fog, and the girl found herself taking the handle of the door and pushing it open, stepping into the house.

The house - her home - was impeccably eerie, in both appearance and sense. Dust flowed in the air, each particle illuminated by the silver rays of the moon; lace tablecloth fluttered in the slight breeze that blew, all a ghost of her home. Esther felt a flame of nostalgia flare inside of her, yet she knew that the fire was hers to tame, or take control of her. She took steps that were careful and soundless, only her shadow appearing beside her - the sole thing that had ever remained walking by her -, accompanying her through the hallways, until Esther stood in the doorframe of her room.

Esther wondered if her mother would appear in her bedroom. She wondered, with every creak of a floorboard, whether or not she belonged in the house, her home - for she had found her own path. It was one that had been forged throughout her life, fashioned through Esther's own unknown acceptance. It was a path that was familiar, known - in a way, it was a home. It was the seed of a flower that had transformed - the roots buried, the buds sprouted, but the petals had yet to fully flourish.

She simply did not know if she wished for someone to finally find her.

A burst of movement in-between her window curtains caught Esther's eyes, a howling noise of untamed wind that had been blurred from her senses by thoughts. She moved out of her doorway to push away the curtains, yet as she reached her bed the window exploded and the curtains ripped. Esther let a scream part from her lips, diving onto her bed to avoid the glass shards, and they shattered onto the ground.

The house suddenly lurched upwards in an upwards spiral, hefted by almighty winds, and Esther cried in broken fear. In the tiny silver shards of gleaming glass she fell, each one piercing her skin sharply, drawing crimson blood. Yet, she did not withdraw; she remained on the floor of her room, staring outside the wrecked window, for there Esther glimpsed at the remnants of her past life.

There were blurs of things she longed for - the laughter of her father before he became drunk, the wonderful meals her mother could serve before she fell ill, and all the joyful times she shared with her brother. Each reminiscence dug sharply into Esther's heart, a stab of pain sent through her body - every broken dream that had once been reality. They stayed for moments, then they were all distant, all gone - only the image of Dexter and her mother remained. It was the same as Esther had seen in the mirror, her desire that could not be satisfied.

Esther closed her eyes closed tightly, desperately fighting a raging war with her heart and feelings. The two figures that stood aloft in the winds called to her; she heard them - they cried to her; she grasped her dagger. It was cold in her palm, but her grip was unsteady. When she opened her eyes, their gazes of supposed concern and love bore into Esther. "N-no," Esther gasped, "y-you're not - not them." Dexter's eyes flickered with worry - and perhaps strange amusement - as he held out a hand, offering it to Esther. Her mother smiled warmly, spreading her arms as if wanting to embrace Esther.

"Esther, come with us. We can be happy together, a family..." the words were spoken from her mother's image, and they were spoken from Esther's mind. The flame of nostalgia threatened to blaze inside of her, a wildfire that could not be kept in.

"No," Esther replied, yet her tone was weak. She inhaled a rattling breath, took stumbling steps to Dexter's hand, her dagger clutched tightly. "I don't belong with you."

She lunged forward. For a moment the twister encased her, whipping her hair across her face, propelling her body to the left, but Esther's aim remained true. It struck Dexter's heart, and with horror, she realized it wasn't real flesh, but rather a material like cardboard paper. But as she withdrew, the mutts of her brother and mother flashed brightly, then disappeared.

Esther fell to her knees, ignored the sharp pain of shattered glass. The glass was broken - just as she was, yet it was more mentally than anything else. She walked on the thin line that divided her mind - the part where sanity was kept, and where madness dwelled. She wished for the touch of Dexter's assuring hand, wished for murmurs of her mother's soft words that all things would be all right. She wished for her home, her family, that for once she may not be alone, to save her from her path.

A rigid grasp, unwavering, clenched the bloodied dagger in Esther's hands; a flickering gaze, almost crazed, danced in her irises; a feeling of mayhem, wild, raced through her being.

Esther would always be alone.