Page 8 of Of Sockets Of Stitches
Finding the right question was difficult indeed when my mind wept so.I never knew you were in such pain.
A ragged inhale. The first sign she had given me.
How have we been in such pain forever?
How had I become used to feeling these things and thinking they were usual and good? I had cherished my ability to see the best of monsters and the bright purpose of their uniquities. I had celebrated my dislike of convention.
Those qualities remained, but they were built upon dust. The foundations of my queenly tower were crumbling and could not possibly support my magnificent aspirations. My tower could not remain upright for long.
Ancients had surely seen that, so this creature was their design.
The mere thought of the creature earned me a warning growl, so I returned to my inner vigil. To her.
I considered the child’s aching numbness and the forever feeling of it. But forever was incorrect. Her age was the answer.
I had not felt this way always, only since…
My minds pressed and squeezed against what I must admit.
The woman, standing aside from the child, now fell to one knee. She did not wish to admit the truth either.
“I am a broken queen.” A broken monster. A broken creature. And King See had told me so.
My minds continued to press and squeeze until a sludgy thought fought free from the muddy depths. I gasped for air that did not exist.
We could not save our mother.
The child silently screamed.
We could not save our mother,I whispered.
I cried.
I cried in soul and mind and power. My power shrank to a ball, no use without the wellness of me. Time swam by, so luxurious and uncaring of my soul breaking.
We could never have saved her,I told the child.
Her death was set from the moment she’d decided to wither. But I had not known of her withering for the first years of my life.
Not until…
I looked at my four-year-old self. She had just been told that her mother would die. One day. Not just now. Mother had told me at four, so that I would live knowing the truth. She had told me then becausehermother told her at four, too, and her mother’s mother. Maybe that had worked out for them, or perhaps they never discovered these deep parts of themselves. But from that day—to my ignorance—I had lived as a broken child, then a broken woman, then monster, then queen.
All chapters of me broken by the knowledge that life was not a happy ever after.
The clamor in my mind swelled, and the clashing waves licked the sides of my skull and threatened to force their way out. A scream built in my throat—the wordless shriek of a person pushed past their limits.
I have always lived in loss and fear.
I sobbed. I screamed. I submitted topain.So much of it, never-ending. I could not bear the agony, and I could not survive it. How could anyone survive knowing that they had lived in denial forever?
But monsters needed me.
Monsters need me.
Other mothers never reached this dark abyss because there was no need for them to do so. There was need for me to be here.
I sank under the surface of the dark ocean as violent waves clashed above. From the calm depths, I stared up at the frenzy and the storm. Reprieve.Ah.
