There's a skinny young girl sitting on a windowsill in the pouring rain. It beats down on the glass made misty by her breath, heavy and dark. She's black haired and pale skinned, but her eyes are gray. She's huddled up, her arms around her legs, and she just stares out of the window, at the clouds, where the rain comes. She thinks about the things beyond the clouds - planets and stars, distant but still, their light is shining, beyond the aeons of space and dust. Maybe that is where she is from. Because she knows she shouldn't be here, because here isn't right. It isn't her home. She stares out of the window, past the clouds, and wants more than anything to go home.
It was an accident. An accident. She did what she had to do. She doesn't believe in God, but she prays anyway, and to her distantly remembered gods, ones she can't quite remember. She doesn't think they remember her. Or why would she still be in this choking world of death and hurt. It's too heavy, too constricting. And she can't remember, and she has to, but she doesn't, except in bits and pieces, and it was an accident, she didn't mean to be reborn like this.
Not like this.
Her mother. Not her birth mother, the one who she had lost, the sorceress mother. She can remember her mother, sort of. She was very powerful, but not powerful enough.
Maybe she was bad maybe she was good. But she was her mother who loved her.
She rocks gently, listening to the sounds of the house - her earth mother, the one she hated, screaming at her earth father, the ceiling creaking, the radiators expanding in the dark, and wishes with all her heart to go home.
