Epilogue 3: Lyra

The librarian has tasked me with reciting scriptures on the blackboard whilst he took a much-needed lunch break but I find I have distracted myself once again. I've cleaned the chalkboard clear of all the verses I had initially scribbled onto it and now stare at the black canvas. With the chalk stick, a weapon in my hand, I channel the energies of Michelangelo, Monet and Kahlo. Empowered, I make my first stroke. It's a hesitant white mark but a start nonetheless. It's all I need, the rest starts to pour out of me onto the board as repressed emotions bubble to the surface.

What do my parents look like?

Father. Your portrait is characterised by straight lines and sharp edges. I imagine you to be quite the commanding figure, tough, with a stoic face. But under that hard exterior there's a softness and kindness you're too scared to free as you fret it will control you and veer you away from what you believe is most important. However, in the peace of the evenings you let your barriers fall bare and the warmer side of you comes to comfort mother and I. I stab a million white dots into the lower half of your face. Men with beards are just better. And my brain fabricates the sensation of your stubbly chin rubbing against my smooth face as you fold me into one of your plentiful bear hugs. I dream you are affectionate. Kind. Loving. Yet, when the situation calls for it those sharp eyes dart across the thin slits I drew for you and you become cold and calculating. No one can best you and that's why I always win my fights against the Costa boys. Winning comes innate. Oh father, send for me and I will come. I will travel the harshest of terrains and fight the scariest of monstrosities just to be in your presence. I'll do anything just to see you and call you father.

Mother, I can't do you justice for I only have one shade which is the ivory of a tusk. But I imagine the colours onto your portrait. You have brilliant eyes, big and wide. Open and inquisitive. Your eyes tell the story of your pursuit for answers no matter the cost and I reason that's where I got my stubbornness from. Now, I can blame you for that mother. I swear to The Authority you must be the prettiest thing to walk the Earth and hence all the men adore you and shower you with gifts and fancy things and in kind, you spoil me too. Your beauty would make all the other kids envious of me as they would desire a mother with such grace and poise, so much so that many would rather leave theirs at the chance of being in your warm embrace. Your hair is curly and tangles just like mine but you would sit me down and tame those unruly knots with your gentle fingers. Oh mother, if I could draw sounds it would be an image of the tune of angels at the gates of the Republic of Heaven. That soft voice still calls out to me whilst I cry myself to sleep, all alone in my cold bed; your voice comes to comfort me. Your voice caresses my cheek as you profess you're so happy you've found me and I reassure you that I'm so glad to finally be found.

My mind starts to tread into dangerous territory. In a minefield of 'what ifs', where what if my parents never died blows up in front of my face. What if you'd survived and we could all play happy family? The chalk drawings start to blur and become white smudges as I feel tears flood into my eyes. I steel myself. It's foolish to cry. The stronger the will, the stronger the mind. I harden my heart to the feelings of loss. You wouldn't want to see me like that; that's not the parents you are. We are Belacquas. You'd wish me to make the most of what I've got and forge a path out for myself in this lonely, desolate world.

I aggressively rub at my drawings. You're both dead and though it hurts, that's the fact of the matter.

Dear mother and father, why couldn't you have taken me with you?

Why did you have to leave me here ... all alone?

Fin.