Over and over.
Punish me,I request of the heavens.
Punish me by never seeing her again. Set her free from my curse.
9
Lina
Iwas eleven the first time I realized you could see the tips of the dunes from my bedroom window. You weren’t supposed to be able to see the desert from anywhere in the village.
Black clouds and great winds brought in a rush of poisonous sands from the dunes. They piled high, higher than ever before. So high, the tops could be seen from my bedroom window.
That was also the first time I got sick from the poison.
I was coughing up sludge and blood all night. My vision went totally black. I tasted decay, ashy and bitter. My mother thought I would die that night.
I wish I had died that night.
Then, I never would have faced my parents’ death and the destruction of our home. I wouldn’t have seen the Drak’yn or heard their whips tear apart a boy I loved.
But I also never would have met Astella.
I don’t know how long I’ve been the captive of the small band of Drak’yn warriors. Their magic pulled me from consciousness, but I eventually wake with a throbbing head and dry tongue. My wrists are rubbed raw where the itchy rope binds them together.
My body sways with a rocking motion. For a moment, I think I am on a ship, but as my senses return, I feel the rumble and bump like the wagon ride with Lorraine and Troy.
Just like that night when the poisonous sands infiltrated my body, I taste decay. Oily and sour. A gallon of water could not wash the taste from my mouth.
There are people beside me. Crying, screaming, sweating, shaking.
Who are the others who have joined me for this ride toward death? I may never know. But the more pressing question is, what lies ahead of us?
Now, more than ever, the horror stories I’d heard growing up bounce around in my head. The ramblings of escapees and the terrified looks in their eyes as they cried themselves to sleep.
“Blood. They drink our blood.”
I shudder at the memory. For the first time, I wish my mother hadn’t taken in so many refugees. We were doing something good. It gave us purpose.
Now, those memories and scattered snippets scramble my mind with fear.
When our wagon halts, we don’t move again.
Harsh boots slap the ground, squishing in mud. Men grumble to each other. One hollers something indistinguishable.
“Stand back,” a man barks.
The squealing of metal is what really grips my soul. Is it a gate?
“Be merciful,” a hushed voice says next to me. “Be merciful.”
We are moving downhill, bumping up and down. Another set of voices are chattering. Frantic whispers.
“What’s happening?”
My breaths become labored.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” the woman continues her whispered chant. “Please be merciful.”
