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Rated: E · Sample · Dark · #1946396
An extract from a story/book i am currently writing.
Fury and rage sweep the streets, unleashing a power so strong that free-will has been obliterate from the mind, and only death can finalize the pain. It reminded me of the plague, I of course had not yet been born, but mother had relayed the story many times. Desperate, frantic, a tedious doom: these were all words mother used to convey those months of pain and fear. Of which all seem to hold a great resemblance to the way I felt running away from the people that intended to harm us.

The thought of death roused a deep surge of anguish and heartache. My hand was clasped firmly around my mother’s palm. My body was hot, too hot, despite the bitter air. Beads of sweat ran down my face merging with my tears. She hauled me across the street. The angry mob grew loud and furious, throwing curses in our direction. “Witch, Witch… Witch!” the assumption that my mother is a witch is foolish. She isn't, is she? No, she’s my mother, nothing more and nothing less. Calm and composed, hungry to adopt the world’s veiled plea; that was my mother. She’s not a witch.

They reiterated it; each time the blazing inferno that burned at their worlds grew cold; yearning for her, clawing for blood, her end. My body felt detached. A claustrophobic feeling crawled in my skin, like a poison polluting my body. The people grew closer, forcing the minimal space between us together until our bodies all but fused mutually. My breath became hoarse and unsteady. We scrambled our way past them, my arms and legs thrashing at anyone who cause a barrier.

A vague sense of fear coursed through my mind as my mother mumbled something inaudible in my ear. She shoved me under the horse cart. I hadn’t fully comprehended what she had said. It was camouflaged by a chorus of tormented cries, completely blocking out my ability to hear. But it didn’t matter, because my heart understood immediately. It splintered as her hand was torn from mine. She disappeared into the crowed; consumed by and men and woman; carried away by the fierce turbulence of the horde. Disappeared that is, with the words I uttered on my lips – words I would never speak again – ‘I love you.’

The moment she had gone, I knew that that was our goodbye. There would be no reunion. Her departure was final. I would never feel her gaze on me as I drifted into a peaceful dream, never be held in her warm protective embrace, never see her smile – a beautiful, heart wrenching smile that always was a little crooked, as if rebellion and mischief ignited it. She had already depleted into an impartial memory.

Gone, just like my father.
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