Sapphire, Time - Chapter 1

"They'll never love me, Mama."

Do you know how it feels to know that your Mama can't comfort you because the truth is what destroys you?

The worst part about having to console a weeping child is when you can't. When the pain is so excruciating and unbearable that your heart shrivels up and squeezes for a second, and the world seems to shatter. Yes, I've dealt with that before, as you'll see, in time.

My mother, Light, was such a traditional Aroenian woman. Beautiful. Almond hair, deep green eyes, and buttery sunfire teeth. I had heard whispers around town from various men about how her skin was just the perfect, homely color of earth, and how they would love to "deepen their roots" in her. I shivered at the thought of what those seething, seedy men thought of her. But to me, Mama's eyes would glisten with love, and her name so fit her well. But today -- oh, today, that would falter. Today, I was to leave home for the Grand Academy at Shancer, possibly one of the most anti-pinkie places in Aroe. And fuck the world, because we were at war with Shree. Even the sages at the academy would hate me. People didn't even have to so much as look twice at me to intimately know that I was Shree. The color of my skin was the eternal flag wrapped around my soul; a flag that wasn't mine, but mine to bear. At least my last name was Aroenian, because if my mother had taken the name "Hekava," we would've been collected by the army, and we would've simply disappeared. Thank God for that. At least my name was just "Shell Atin."

But, nevertheless, I knew the truth. It hurt. I blurted it out.

"I'm a pinkie, Mama!"

That broke her heart even more. I could see it in her eyes. I would instantly be targeted for looking like my father, despite having a completely beautiful and Aroenian mother. I was cursed with the blood of a man who I had never met -- and who I never cared to meet, fuck him. Yes, fuck him! He had come in the summer and left so quickly and quietly -- only about a week before the Royal Command of Non-Communication from Shree had been sent. One day here; the next, gone. Such was the careless man that was my father, and yet, his influence pulled on my very soul, like a quite heavy rock chained to a leash around my neck, pulling me to the bottom of the sea...

The man behind me -- oh, I could feel him. His soul hardened at those words I had said. I could almost feel the deep hatred and pain that was born only from loss, and, oh, I could imagine. My hobby was to feel things that other people felt and to imagine why I felt them. I was fortunate to be born to a mother who was always available with books and aramatics, so I had a lot of source material to draw from. I had already seen this soldier who stood behind me. He was a tall, cold man who had tired, blank eyes -- a clear victim of war. He spoke with that drawl that ringed with a slightly Eastern accent -- I could imagine that he had come from the rice floodplains of Brask. He was a bit older -- probably a career military man -- and his face was left unkept and unshaven. I could smell a faint amount of alcohol on his breath pouring into the air over me -- or did I feel it? I always felt that alcohol made the emotions of others unstable and volatile. I could also detect that he was faintly unhappy with the cold, spring air, making his skin sting with the frostiness of the iron armor against it. I didn't mind the cold -- but here -- here was a person who wasn't comfortable with the cold, and now had to live with it in his soul.

This was a man who had lost something to "the fucking pinkies," and this boy he had to fucking deliver to the fucking Academy was the bane of his existence by simply existing and looking like one of them. You see, I think I reminded him of the murderer, whoever it was, and also whomever he had killed. What a combination! At least I didn't speak like one of "them," one of the pinkies.

Ah -- and I felt the words coming from the man before they left the his mouth.

"You little runt..." he began, slurring his words like a drunkard.

I'm not going to repeat what the man said verbatim -- only that I didn't deserve to complain like the little girl that I was, and that real, worthy men had died in the war against "the pinkies" and that I had better "shut up" and "be thankful that he didn't cut me down now." Fuck him. I didn't ask to be born this way, but that's the way that it was. And what could Mama do? My mother's eyes told all the story, but she couldn't say anything. The state had the power here, and as a widow, she had no power. You see, I had finally been found out. As the son of a foreign citizen who deserted the country, I had no legal right to really be under her legal ownership, especially if I had aramatic potential. Aramatia was a supreme asset to military might in this day and age, so the books and recent events had taught me -- and I was not to be treated as some common boy who would grow up the son of a general store clerk and bookkeeper. No, I was to be put to work for "the good of the state." I was to be molded and, perhaps, eventually funneled into the war effort. The war is all that ever mattered now -- a stark contrast to what it had been like only a few years ago.

Finally, done with his angry (painful) rant, the soldier scoffed in disgust, and began to turn away. "I'm going to give you three moments," the soldier said as he turned around and stepped into the street. "And you better come quickly." He twitched and whipped his head. So did I. Oh, that one hurt. It hurts having to experience flashes of trauma and pain -- a little bit of a tear came to my eye. I had figured out that I experienced somewhere from a tenth to half of a person's emotion when I -- oh, what word will I use -- covered their emotions. Today, I had felt very little of what that man felt. I felt bad. I couldn't understand how he kept on living.

But, now, back to my mother.

Oh God.

This would be the last time I would see her, wasn't it?

I hadn't noticed.

She was beginning to sprout tears now.

"My seashell, please don't cry..." she began.

It was all useless now. I couldn't not cry when I saw Mama cry.

We lay there, in each other's arms, wondering what the future would hold. My mother was whispering sweet advices -- things that I had heard a thousand times but were only really hearing today.

"Always keep enough food for yourself. Never go hungry. Never let yourself down and sell yourself away. Keep your heart close, and your light closer. Be thankful for the things you have. Try to see the good in everyone. Be good to your friends, and even better to your enemies. Find a good girl, and treat her well."

She was rushing.

"You're a good boy, Shell. A good boy. I love you, I love you --"

"TWO!" Oh, how time flies. The soldier was coming by-

"THREE!" I was a mess when the soldier picked me up by the collar, strangling my throat for a few seconds, and then threw me away from my mother. A dirty, metal gauntlet slapped my chin, and then grasped it. "We are leaving. Now."

He half-unsheathed his sword. He was growling. Oh God, he was actually serious. He would murder me if I didn't get up this instant.

And we were off. I had barely recovered when I saw my mother crying, and yelling.

"You're not your father, love!" she screamed. "Don't ever forget that!"

I didn't think I would start crying again -- even I didn't understand what sort of note that played in me, but it zoomed straight into my lungs.

"I know! And I love you!"

A sudden burst of force and pain entered me through my ear. It was a fist.

And then another one.

And another.

Oh, I was crying. There was nothing I could do. Today was a bad day -- quite possibly the worst day in my life so far. Yes, quite possibly.

The soldier's deadened and hateful eyes had the look of a murderer. Cold, unrelentless, and -- dare I say -- hinting at pleasure.

"You sound exactly like them!" A bit of sadistic, teasing relish had entered his voice now, and an extra bit of force entered his body.

Just a second now... What did I just hear? Was that right?

"Shut up!"

Another punch.

"Shut up!"

Another one.

"Shut up!"

He kept on going. I had never realized that I had sounded like them.

Did I really sound like one? How could I?

Why?