There aren’t enough tears or medals to match the scars that adorn my hide. Some are little more than vicious smiles. Others twist and writhe beneath my flesh. Blood crawls through knurled, diseased veins that resemble the exposed roots of an oak. Although red, my life’s river is a darker hue tainted by nightmares that were centuries in the making; unspeakables I will never wake up from.
My name…. unimportant. At birth I was given a name, yes there was a name once, but for some, I was never free enough to wear it. Jest they called it…. calling me a Bitch or Whore, anything and everything but my name.
Loosely translated, my name means bringer of light.
One summer long ago proved that I am anything but.
After all, they found me in a mass grave of children, their screams choked out by mud and decay. Cover us up they thought. Surely they would understand the dark gift and why it was so important to silence “The Tellers”. I was the first but they found me last. How ironic.
Alana Symone- Garrett knows what I am. Not who… that would denote that I was human once or that a heart red and pure thumped in my chest. We have grown old enough to know that suicide is petty and fairytales lie.
No one ever comes to save you. Crawl out of the dumpster if you want to live. Claw through the mud and maggots if you stand a chance at forgiveness.
I made a promise…I swore and oath and to that I hold true. I will never darken their door again and yet I invite them to mine. Mere formality. No one would dare. Most would never find the nerve. Useless apologies crumble to dust in my throat. Never warranted… never needed. Such words go against the gain.
But there is one.
She knows what I am.
I am her thin red scream.