Sacrificial Suicide

                What irony it was, that the voice which had loved her so, sang endearment to her in infancy, righted her when she stumbled, and approved of her failures, would decimate her world.  Rather, another one's opportunity of a world-to-be.  A barbaric assassination maliciously awaited the life within the mother, its proclamation beckoning the girl from her corner of the Kinilan household.  The same voice held no affection for the fetus, a blank emotion clashing with the girl's mediating stimulation of lacrimal glands.  One would think the contention of the archangels of heaven with hell's minions could not possibly be equivalent to the war she waged for her sister's life.  But her maternal guardian was granite, the child would hold no place in her arms.  Hades would freeze over, Xanatine has always presumed, before her mother ever performed such a thing.  Why, it'd be as if someone had denied the wetness of water!  Impossible.  Yet, it was no matter of expenses, but the iced loathing and reminisces its birth would fling into her face.  This much Xanatine knew.  No more could she comprehend.  God asked His Son to be torn beyond the likeness of man; the same reasons didn't pertain to this circumstance. 
         "Even for me, then, you won't change your mind?"  Please, try to understand it from my way.  I don't need another child, darling, I have you.  When she's gone, I still have a daughter, so it's really no loss.
                The sky might rain blood, and that phenomenon would have been more commonplace than her ludicrous explanation.  Time, nor ubiquitous tears, proved to be of any adverse effect.  All the pleading in the world shook nothing.  In every appearance, the girl seemed ultimately defeated, descending the basement stairs that one beautiful, snowy twilight.  Where had it sat?  In the safe above the metal shelves, that was it.  Throwing her face up to the darkening skies outside the pane, one gunshot ripped the very atmosphere; the firstborn lay in a pool of gore.  Sixteen winters and never again one more.
         
             
                Twenty-six year old Hope knelt before a weathered marble headstone.  A little girl frolicked beside her, reveling in the honor of carrying dearest mommy's flowers, scarcely knowing of their true significance. 
         "Xanatine brought you lilies, sister.  They're the symbol of resurrection, you know."
The girl looked up at her mother, her child's mind aware that she spoke to no one.  Toddler she was, running her dimpled hands over the worn cream stone of the one to whom she owed her life.
         "Mommy!  Wook!  The dead wady has my name!"
As much as Hope winced to hear of her referred to as such, she smiled tenderly.  Yes, love, she does.  Placing her hand over her daughter's on the marker, she breathed to Heaven,
         " Xanatine...your whole life...for mine...your entire life, so I didn't have to die like that.  Oh, thank you, thank you so much."
              The little namesake flung her lilies above her downy head, the pristine petals falling upon the grave.