|| Lenia, three ||

|| Lenia, three ||

Her toes are already a pulp of red and white. Alas, her flute lies cloven in two, wherever her limp head is dangling towards. Concentration is bereft as exposed flesh grind on pavement.

But physical pain has no place in her mind at the moment. Her head is saddled with her thinking cap – specifically, one for memories.

Gilt, fat columns; coffered ceilings; carpeted floors. She had lived in such places, once. Flourish she would in a dress, retainers huddling to her needs brainless – a yawn, or even a sordid remark would provoke a round of applause. “What elegance! How eloquent!”

A time when she had her eyes.

She had been only fourteen! The cringe is inevitable. Fourteen of age and she was no different from any of her peers: consumed with urges of vanity. What colors to adorn oneself with, what she would be holding in her hands, what would hold up her hair, rummaging through shelves for the fragrance that would entice the boys that day. Such a carefree creature.

Yes, back then she was beautiful.

No, God had not pissed on her just yet.

The ducking of heads and hasty respect murmured were a delight to the ears, and the fumbling, blanking of expressions to demure shadows had been an immense thrill. When the Swirling Keys flew above her head, with her mother leading her, not even a queen would stare her eye to eye. A queen – to a fourteen year old child! (The escaping cackle provoked another kick to the ribs.)

Ah, her mother. The woman she raised on a pedestal, the woman whose attention she had craved so very much, a woman who she had loved so much she had almost estranged her father.

Father. No, not father. Uncle. Usurper.

Traitorous little fuck of a man, oh how even just one word booted her heart awake!

Her nameday had been a bath of celebrations and partying, drink sparse, but food choking her cheeks. Her coming home was so late in the night that she feared ghosts would stalk her, and almost feared it true when she saw no lamplight dancing on her mansion’s windows. How naively had she thought it was merely strange back then – unsuspecting, innocently curious and probably still chewing on marinated chicken. Her mother would have slapped her for that. Eating while walking.

The prospect of gossiping with the woman about the events of the day drew her to throw open the door.

The person who greeted her was not her mother.

But that was the last face she ever saw.

A “Hello, child”.

A roaring sear across her face.

She was blind.

God had most likely been laughing at her, that moment. Floundering like a fish out of water, open, shrieking mouth pooling blood. His hand roughly fondling her brain, twisting it on and off.

Even now she fails to order the sequence of memories after her blinding. So greatly confused at the absence of sight her brain merely fails to process it all. Voices, scents and touches in darkness.

Separately, they trickle into the surface.

The voice of that man – filth! - laughing. Maniacally rationalising his actions. Of how he had raped his mother for months now, yet when she had failed to give him the fruits of a child, how he had replaced her with some lookalike whore. Dreams of a child in his likeness, dreams of lording over the Swirling Key of Zelian as vaelin.

Groping hands, something straddling her, scores of nails dragging up and down her cheeks. Pain had become a dull thing.

- Now, no one will believe her because they can’t recognize her!

Another bout of diseased mirth, echoed by other mongoloid swine.

Cold. So cold. Chewing on blood, nursing herself by breathing. She walks funny. Not solely because she fumbles drunkenly. There feels something lodged between her legs.

The next days are vehement arguments with God. Attempts at making friends with shadows.

Unintentional terrorising. Bleeding stings from thrown rocks. Random lynching.

God’s pissing on her never stops.

Even now, after her brutal beating by these men. There are roars of jeering, cheering, bleating whoops preceding her and following her. The kindly town stinks a cesspool of its true nature. A mass of fearful harebrained- oh, oh the rage. It snuffs the pain to the peripherals.

Why is she laughing her anger out?

Perhaps this is God touching her brain again, the Hand puppeteering her body.

The moving stops.

If she had eyes, she would see the stage set up just for her, for her to burn alive.