Please. Let me be dead, please. It is too calm to be the Earth I know of, too silent, but I am in no place named heaven, as my people had formerly sworn all no longer with us dwell. I am far from it.
My eyes search desperately for light, lungs gasp for breath, heart pounds for blood. In waking, I find no relief. Engulfing my body in stone-cold seclusion, my only company are the towering walls which surround me, secure me, suffocate me. I feel weary, hazy%u2026 I must still be dreaming, for nothing is truly distinct. The grime and mud that embeds my red-raw flesh smells of home: of rotten leaves, sweet blooms of daisies, dewy vegetation heaving with life. It masks the metallic stench hanging like an angry black cloud in the air, casts away the sharpness of the disinfectant which burns my nostrils. Home wraps its arms around me, keeping me safer than the concrete I%u2019m encased in. My trembling hand stretches out, seeking warmth, but meeting emptiness.
Ink? Incinia?
A dull shaft of sunlight, filtered by the bars fastened to a pathetic ceiling window, encourage my eyes to adapt to the obscurity that embraces the room. They decline the help- I still feel blindly for her body though, only to find walls. Walls. More walls. What have they done with her? Where is my baby? What have they-?
Freeze. Covered in a thin, desiccating liquid- my fingers have found something. Squinting, I find the fluid to be crimson red in colour.
A few years back, before the Dawn, my sister and I were climbing trees in a bid to gather fruit and to hurry along time. Loosing footing on a frail branch, I fell metres to the ground, landed on my back. It felt as if the impact had blown every wisp of breath from my body, and I struggled to inhale, exhale, to move. I recognise the substance. History repeats itself: my breathing is scarce. It%u2019s the constant thudding pulse in my ears, the constant drum-beat, which declares this is not a dream. This is very real. I am very much alive. Incinia is not. My sister is not.
%u201CIncinia!%u201D The strangled cry tears from my throat, shocks my muscles into moving again. My attempt to wipe the blood off my hands is futile, causes my heart to race in a flurry of panic. Instead, I find myself thumping, striking, lashing at the barrier cutting me and my sister, my baby, in two. Come back! Come back to me! I continue to yell incoherently, as if someone is listening and understanding, as if I%u2019m not alone. Some screams sound as pitiable as a kitten%u2019s mew; my throat is thick with tears, hoarse from fatigue. Weak. Still lingering, the metallic scent finds its way to my nose. It not the smell of rusting metal anymore- it is the smell of blood. My hands throb, my eyes tingle, but I cease to stop. That is, until I try to stand and note the searing pain shooting through my leg.
Falling silent, tears blurring my vision, I slump against the wall and slide to the ground, defeated by logic. I lost myself, and I was sightless in terror, stupidity- That%u2019s not her blood. Not her blood. It%u2019s yours. For tightly wound around my left leg, a discoloured-white bandage bleeds a vivid red, faintly gleaming in the misty light.
The relief that floods over me, trickles through my veins like a cool stream on a baking summer%u2019s day, is short lived. I try to keep the stream flowing, my body deluged with liberation. But hate poisons that stream, transforms the water to acid. Not a drop of Incinia%u2019s blood has been spilt- at least, not in this room. But where is she? Where am I? Why am I here? The officials of the Dawn have taken my knowledge, taken my baby, taken my freedom. I am trapped. I am scared. I am alone. And I hate them for it.
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