Draogflies, Dead and Pinned Upon Cardstock
Disclaimer: Okay y'all, you know the drill. I own nothing, not Harvest Moon, not a car, and because I'm a minor, I don't even own my own destiny
A/N: I dedicate this, my first to fic, to Atavaka. Thank you. And yes this was inspired by Chichen-Itza.
Like it or not, everyone is born to a certain destiny. A path that try as you may, you cannot escape. The subconscious is the basic operating system that controls this lie. Have you ever woken up after a restless night's sleep and mindlessly did something for no reason. Something as simple as scheduling a hair cut because you felt like it or taking an unusually cold shower. Is this reality really so different from a computer game, one where the characters aren't in control.
"I am not alive," thought the young lady of the forest, "but I'm not dead. A rock is what I am. A stone not living or dead, but serving a purpose without individuality or name."
The melancholy woman probed deeper into the woods, as she did into her dark thoughts. Her white form weaving among the dark guardians of time as her soul played among her conscious. Doubts of self worth came to mind till only one question remained, "What is my name?"
From birth, the maiden had been without name or home. It would be easier that way when the time came for the innocent one, the pure one. Her white beauty, her passive grace marked her for a gruesome fate. When the soil grew old, her virgin blood would be spilt before the cold barren earth. Tonight she would pray to the full silver moon. If light didn't return to the bleak lands then her blood would glisten in the shadows before the next dark moon.
Despairing thoughts blinded the doomed girl until shocked, her path brought her to the summit of the foreboding mountain. Stalagmites below grinned like the foundations of a beckoning face. The girl's feet danced nervously at the cliff's edge. The young maiden was tempted of the freedom of nothingness, but trapped by thoughts of suffering and pride; honor and freedom. Finally the last thread of instinct snapped and she stepped into the cold night air.
Gravity seemed to forget the girl, as if distracted by the cursing man whose hands clung to the virgin. Far too startled to scream, the maiden fell into the warm, thick arms of her "do-gooding" captor. His fingertips were blunt and callused, his nails providing shelter for what seemed a small garden. The sight of life-giving black gold shamed the girl. There would be no east way out.
This cold jolt of reality forced the girl to look into the face of her savior. His hair was a mousy brown, far bleached by the sun. His forest-dark eyes twinkled in a face that had darkened and abused by long hours in the fields. The maiden eagerly brushed back her long, dark hair to better look at the infectious smile that light up his features.
"Hi, I'm Ben," he said in a sun cherry voice.
The girl was silent.
After a few moments, Ben tried again. He pointed to himself and in a slow and clear voice, the kind one uses on a foreigner, said Ben
Again the girl was silent. How could you explain to someone that you had no name?