Risa
I revel in the soft chaos of nighttime. The air is buzzing with activity but in the dark the sounds seem muted, comforting. It's a new moon tonight. Perhaps it is a sign for new beginnings.
The nights arrive earlier and darker, but the clear skies allow the stars to stand stark against its velvety indigo. Sometimes the moon casts silvery light across the grounds, making it much easier to see, but I'm also glad for nights such as this, where I can easily bypass the guards enforcing curfew.
There are some rules I don't break anymore. I have stopped teaching Grace as I used to; it's far more important to keep her out of trouble. Sometimes we need humility to remind ourselves that this is not our world. But I do not feel guilty about breaking this one. When something has been forbidden under the guise of helping the people, it usually is only there to benefit those at the top, those whose only job is to turn the crank of the machine and watch the puppets dance.
There isn't much to say anymore. During the day, I keep my head down and work quickly and efficiently. But night is for dreaming, and I cannot resist its call. Perhaps I belong to the night rather than the day. For I have grown dark and quiet as a shadow. And when sun meets shadow, it tends to disappear entirely.
The sharp snap of a twig jerks me away from my thoughts. I become aware I've been making more noise than usual while trying to find my footing along the unlit path. I silently step away, between the trees, and wait for the guard to pass.
The rank smell of fermented apples fills my nostrils, and I realize much too late that it wasn't a guard.
I was hurt by a boy, once. The kind where he continued living and I tucked in all my corners and, like a spider, withdrew. And all I knew was liquor and laughter. 'Tears of joy, right?' I promised myself I would never let it happen again, but nothing is for certain. I thought modesty would keep me safe. I was wrong. Even afterwards, when I clung to it and wrapped it around myself like a cape, I was wrong. All I know is that there is a hierarchy of pain, and those at the bottom receive it tenfold, and tenfold again.
I always imagined hell to be cold. A lifetime ago, when my people would preach and threaten with it, they would always say we would burn in flames. I am burning now, but from cold. I thought sacrifice would keep me good but I suppose I am wrong once again. My hell is cold.
Tears of joy, right?