Blind Love

Damara

Damara lived on the edges of Athens. She lived with her mother and father, and her younger siblings. They were wild and carefree, not knowing what awaited them once they were eleven years of age. Damara helped her parents make pottery. She had a gift for it. It was like the clay molded itself, with just the slightest touch of her small hand. She didn't need her sight for it.

Damara had been born blind. Her father believed it was a curse from the gods. He believed they were punishing him with Damara, and he took it out on her. He beat Damara, sometimes to the point where she couldn't move from the pain. He had always hated her.

Her pieces were beautiful, yet strong, and everyone in the marketplace came to even just admire their beauty.

Every month, the city of Athens would hold a gathering in the center of the city, where one person was chosen from a bowl of names as a sacrifice for the demon Medusa. No one had seen her and come back alive, so all they had were rumors. Nevertheless, each month, one unlucky soul was chosen to be the sacrifice.

"Damara! Come here!" her mother, Nira, called, somewhat panicky. "You must fix your hair! But first put on your good chiton! You must look proper!"

"Alright, Mother," she called back, hurrying into her clean white chiton that she saved for these gatherings. She tied her dark hair back into pleats that wove around her head, like a tiara or ropes. She picked up the bronzed mirror laying on the table and felt its familiar curves and edges.

"Please not this month," she whispered to herself. Her hand jumped to the back lace she always wore. Her hands touched its warm curves, the fimiliar etchings of the entwined snakes comforting her pounding heart.

"We're late! Damara, now!" Nira shouted, her words echoing through the drafty hallway.
...

Not ten minutes later, they stepped into the central square, where hundreds of people were packed, staring up at their king. He was sitting on a purple throne, draped in embroidered rules and tapestries. He sat in the shade the canopy overhead made. Servants fanned him as he leaned over to pick a name from a bowl.

Anyone from eleven to thirty years of age could be picked. No younger, and no older. Every sacrifice must also be a woman. That's what Medusa had said. Plus, men were good for labor, and the army. According to most, men were more valuable. Women were sacrificable.

The king's pudgy fingers scrabble around the bowl, searching for a slip of parchment that would seal the fate of whatever poor girl was chosen.

His fingers finally grasped a piece of parchment and unfolded it to see the name etched inside.

"Damara of the potters," he called, letting the parchment slip from his fingers. He flicked his wrist and servants ran forward to heave the king up, and begin the trudge uphill to his castle.

...

Damara stood there long after everyone else had left. Nira stood with her. Her husband had gone back to the other children, who had been waiting at home. He never loved Damara like she did.

"Please," Damara whispered, holding back the tears. "Leave me alone. I love you, Mother."

Nira held her daughter close one last time, and turned to walk back to their home. The home Damara would never see again.