Pure

Chapter One

To all persons under 15 years of age, I would just like to worn you that throughout this story there will be; sex scenes, a medium amount of swearing, and high level violence/suicidal themes.

Preface

My name is Femmelya. I was born a half cast of African blood and raised on English rules in London 1849. My father Isis Able was a Nigerian man cast into slavery and my mother Jane Nancy was a fair skinned, upper class English woman born into royalty.  The tale of how they met and fell in love is irrelevant, how it ended is what matters. At age 11 I watched my mother slit her wrists and bleed to death.

Dear Lya

For I have left you nothing but the little money I have saved.

I was not strong enough to fight back, but I did this for you.

To make you stronger Lya. Escape this place is all I ask,

I will always love you Lya don’t ever forget that.

J.

To this very day I can remember reading them over and over in my head, the words on that paper, as the blood soaked into my clothes while I held her to me and wept. She was all I had ever known, all I had had left.

What she really left behind was not that emotionless letter, her life savings, or my grief stricken father, but the pure anger, resentment and hatred that followed not long after. From that day on my father saw me as nothing more then his rag doll. A slave to the cold, black, hands, of revenge.

I prayed for my death every year of my life. I survived seven years of darkness. Seven years of pain and anger and on that seventh year I died. In 1867 I finally found the light.

I remember everything about that night as if it had been burnt into every sense I owned. The black shadows looming at my sides and the distinct smell of sulfur all around me. I thought it was just my drunk father come to claim me during the night like he did more often than not and I would just imagine it was another bad dream, not real, not happening. But this time it was different.

There were no cold hands, only thick black shadows with gaping mouths and the piercing sound of high-pitched screams, my lungs burned and my ears rang, that’s when I realized they were my strangled screams that echoed off the walls. The blackness ripped down my throat and filled up my lungs cutting off my feeble shrieking.

The next thing I remember was sprinting through the wheat, then the corn, then the wilted sunflowers that bordered the east paddock. And that’s where I collapsed bloody and broken in more ways then one. I lay there on my back looking up at the stars for what felt like hours.

Gradually I let go inch-by-inch and felt as if I became apart of the earth, the grass as it swayed in the night breeze and bowed to the stars. I can’t explain the feeling, the closest feeling that comes to mind is pure bliss, it burns you right to the bone, like your floating in thick air and I guess I was in a way.

However what most people don’t mention is the agonizing pain after that, that carves threw your skin and rips your life from your chest…and I guess in a way…they had.

Godwin says Lucinda stole half of my soul that night and that without the other half I will never be human or a pure seraph unless I can get it back and decided my own path.

And if not I will remain in this half form living among gods taking orders and obeying rules. Like the slave I once was to my father. I may exist in heaven but I do not posses wings, I may appear human but I do not posses full life. What shall you do with me may you ask? Not even God knows that one. 111 years I have served as a raph. 111 years I have lived in a perfect world created by perfect creatures…yet I will never belong.