Ignis
  • Reads 694
  • Votes 20
  • Parts 6
  • Time 46m
  • Reads 694
  • Votes 20
  • Parts 6
  • Time 46m
Ongoing, First published Dec 24, 2014
***
She was powerful behind mortal imagination.
She feared by everyone she crossed paths with.
Yet she had no idea why they hated her, despised her being.
Her life was a lie.

***
Part of the Prologue

Amber sat under the protection of the porch as the rain fell all around her. Her old foster parents wouldn't let her in their house anymore. They said that she had to wait outside for her foster agent to come and pick her up. Amber had her back to the house with a hand clutching on to a small black duffle bag that held everything that she had ever owned. Her whole life was littler in her hands.

A pair of headlights shone out in the distance heading down the street. Probably to come and pick Amber up and bring her back to the Hopes Promise foster home. The rain poured harder still as the car light got closer. Silently Amber felt her eyes moisten but she refused to give in. Why. What had she done this time, what could she had possible done to make them hate her so much.

Rain water poured down the gutters splashing to the sides as it went, causing Amber to be dripping wet. She started to shiver violently trying to remind herself of warm summer days, trying to think of if she met her parents what they would be like. Of course she knew that out of all the odds, she would never meet her parents, she could only guess. The Foster system didn't give her access to anything about her past family or why they had given her up. That was another question she had, why. Why did they give her up. Was she not good enough? Could they not afford another child? Did they not want her, was she a mistake? All the questions Amber could never find the answer to.

***

Ignis: Fire in Latin
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The Woman Who Blasphemed

1 part Complete

The drip, drip brought back the memory of those screams. She could smell the crimson from that day, or was it crimson, salt, left behind by the blood and tears of some other prisoner. Were they abused? She wondered. How were her children. She thought of them a dozen times a day, she asked the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost to keep them safe. Jamil she had long ago realized would be spared his father's beatings. That day only brought it to her conscious. She had always known. But she saw it that day. Her beautiful daughter Maryam, that was who she was more worried about. Drip, drip. Splat. Splat. The water smelled bad. Sour, of shit. It tasted even worse. She had been forced to drink it, they had starved her, and deprived her of water for a few days. Was it days? She didn't know. There was no night and day in this place. Just the collective quiet and screams for food, for water, for mercy. Confessions of sins that the prisoners had not committed, anything to get out. Most harrowing were the screams. The whips, the flays, the screams. She winced every time she heard one. She shivered the first time she had heard one. She shuddered as she thought of that. The hair on her back rose, she pulled her arms around herself. It was unearthly. Not an animal's scream, not her screams when her husband beat her, not even when he had hit her with a bat. Not the screams of the dog that those kids had cornered, and were poking with sticks, some throwing stones at it, as if it were the devil himself. No, none of those screams. This came from a deeper place. This was a scream from before civilization. From before language. This was a scream, guttural. Loud, screeching, very much in pain.