Darkness (II)

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was an ordinary day.

The skies weren't clear nor were they dark—instead the cerulean canvas was permeated by wisps of grey, all of which were of differing shades. The sun sat proudly atop an undulating hill, it's soft rays somewhat interrupted by the crisp, dying air that sang with the promise of rain.

Yet there she was.

My mother, teary-eyed and bruised, hackled to a wooden beam. She was crying, though not loudly—the sobs that wracked her form were quiet, raspy mewls. She shuddered often, and with each rapid movement her hands strained against the cuffs, leaving bloody marks on her wrists. I wanted to scream—to tell her that she was hurting herself—but even I knew what was coming.

Perhaps a little pain would remind her that she was still alive.

Father walked forward, axe in hand. He looked as composed as ever and I struggled in my sister's hold, desperate to console her. To care for her, just as she had me. She needed to know that everything was alright.

"Eliza Brown." father boomed, his voice rolling over the field, "you have been sentenced with high treason against the Council. Your punishment is death."

Death for speaking out against the Council. Death for speaking out against tyranny and murder.

A heaving sob tore from her throat, and at the sound I burst into tears. Mommy was scared. She had never been frightened of anything before- she'd always been the one to check my closet for monsters and turn the lights off at night.

Father trailed a finger down the length of the blade. For a moment I swore I saw a flash of pain ripple across his countenance but before I could grasp it the cool, emotionless mask returned. Mother looked up at me, eyes burning with love, lips trembling over her last words.

"Isa, darling." she whispered. "I want you to know that no matter what, the heart will always prevail. I love you. I love you. I love—"

Thwack.

Her head rolled towards me.

I screamed.

My father smiled.

I awoke with a startled gasp.

I would've screamed, if not for the fact that I was well acquainted with the recurring nightmare. My hand flew to rest over my galloping heart and I squeezed my eyes shut, still haunted by the vestiges of the fading memory.

My mother. I reopened my eyes, hastily surveying the room. Phoenix was gone. For that, I was grateful—I could feel the sadness bundling in my throat, actualising as a dense lump that made it hard to breathe. Hot tears welled in my eyes and I chewed the inside of my cheek, telling myself that I mustn't cry. But she was there, flashing in my mind's eye, and the walls I'd thrown up were crumbling one by one.