In Which the Storm Rises

When Glass Glints

I glare angrily at the red liquid covering my hands, it is of an uncomfortable warmth and the colour is rich and reminds me of blood. Of course, it's supposed to. That's the whole point. Sometimes, when i am glaring intently at something it shifts in my mind creating patchworks of colour flow around me, but today nothing happens.

"Calm down," my best friend, Sade laughs, warm and bubbling on this morbid day.

I turn my unwavering glare on her, unfaltering as the storm burns on in my mind. To her, the day is just a joke, but for people like me who will never know half their family, the day fills me with an overwhelming sense of dread. I let out a low inhuman growl, storming out of the room.

My dad says this sometimes happens to people like us, we lose all control. When this happens, i must leave. I imagine this something to be like the mist, chewing up all in its path with a twisting, twirling blackness. Involuntarily, I scream.

The needles are not so bad once you get used to them, and the bed is soft and warm, and I sink comfortably into it. The Constitutional Human Emergency Leaders, (Ems or cons) pay for all my rehabilitation, something I will be eternally grateful for.

Some say that the cons are harsh, but the world has been through so much I can hardly blame them.

Sometimes I get rebellious thoughts, a part of me, sick of the rules and far to much like my father, gets angry at the rules. Angry Is not something I can have the luxury of being. I push these thoughts deep inside of me.

They are exactly the kind of thoughts I need not to have, we must show unity as a family, and as a city. We are the examples.

Today is the day of a thousand tears, which is a rather poetic name for the horrible experience many suffered through.

I am told that in far villages the people dance, swirling around and free. I wish often for such ceremonies, where tension and misery do not hang in the air.

I feel a prick as another injection is pushed into my arm, and the air around me whooshes away in a twisting blinding light. I am falling into the abyss of sleep.

God, I really have to stop spending so much time sleeping, I'm starting to miss a lot more in my life. Glancing up at the mirror, i peel off my scratchy med gown and tug on an arguably scratchier sweater. My stone-grey eyes are cold and empty the little flecks of white pushing at the harsh grey. Little-bits-of-good. That's what I call them. I hurriedly turn my gaze away. Instead I look over at my bed, it looks rather temptingly soft, but a promise to myself is still a promise, so I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

Dammit.

I've missed a mandatory broadcast. It's the president. She smiles a wide toothy smile, and I feel a wave of love for her, the saviour of our country.

"What did I miss?" I ask my mum, Oxy. Trying to keep my voice light. Something tastes like honey.

"Nothing, just a warning from some villagers that the mist peeked over the mountain top again." It's not exactly a rare occurrence but it worries me anyway.

My eyes rise to the screen, and one of the villagers is standing there. She's about my age, with short choppy hair, warm brown skin and eyes that I can't quite describe, they are a molten goldish colour, and they remind me of childhood stories of sweet fairies and magic rivers.

"You're the one who spotted it, correct?" Says the news-reader, and as the young girl replies there is a slight ticklish gruffness to her voice which is pulling at a memory in my mind.

"Yes, that'd be right," Her soft voiced village accent is thick, and again, it makes me feel as though I am tasting honey.

I note that they don't mention her name, village name or even the location.