Page 24 of Spark of Madness

Wildflowers in shades of amethyst and ruby dance in the breeze with the tall grass—gems of color that shine brightly through a bleak world. It’s a sea of bright life that calls to my soul. I breathe deeply, savoring the floral scent that mingles with the fresh mountain air as I walk among the wildflowers, my skirt dusting the grass as I move through it.

I hear a child giggling and look off into the distance to see a domestic woman and her little girl playfully chasing one another through the field. The grins and laughter between them bring a joyful expression to my face, yet it also brings a twinge of heartache.

Moving to my perfect spot in the center of the field, I tuck my skirt beneath me before lowering to sit, my head still turned to watch them play a few moments longer. The longer I watch the little girl—who’s maybe seven or eight—the more my sadness grows.

That child is destined to serve—she’s already been marked for it. I can see the lines of black ink on her forearm from here; and though the image isn’t clear from so far away, I know exactly what it looks like all the same. All who’ve been selected to serve bear the emblem.

I set my mother’s journal beside me and push back my sleeve, revealing the same design tattooed on my arm. Two black lines wrap all the way around my forearm, splitting apart an image of the same wildflowers I sit amongst, only the design on my arm is colorless.

I think the founders of Ember Glen must have imagined us as wild—colors too bright and bold invading their grassy meadow that they needed to subdue. In a way, it’s quite a sad image. Black lines draw the floral landscape on my arm, but the image is devoid of color, lacking the joy that the real flowers bring.

I sigh, knowing the little girl would’ve been marked for service when she was five—that’s when all the girls in Ember Glen have their fates chosen for them. The Control decides who will be marked to serve and who will be left for “domestic bliss”—their words, not mine. Though if you ask the Control, they’ll say God speaks through them to select the future servants, and that they don’t make the decisions all their own.

It’s a lie if you ask me.

In truth, we all serve, but domestics will never have to serve the Impulse. Domestics are given the grace of a home, a husband, and children. Sometimes the children are their own, born of artificial implantation, and sometimes they’re born of servants and assigned a family unit. In any case, the child playing happily in the meadow bears the mark of a servant, and it gives me the urge to charge after her, pick her up, and run with her up the mountains.

It’s just a fleeting thought, though. It’s not as though I could ever leave Ember Glen. Even if I could survive the trek to see what’s on the other side of the mountains surrounding us, I don’t know what horrors await.

There was a civil war born of politics and greed before Ember Glen was settled, and it destroyed a country they once called the greatest in the world—at least, that’s what we’re told. It’s always said that we’re lucky to have been born here.

I turn away and lay back, letting myself disappear among the green, purple, and red. I lift my mother’s journal to rest against my belly, feeling the stitch of a small ache that never really goes away. It’s not an ache of the physical nature…it’s spiritual.

When I was younger, I naïvely hoped for children of my own one day, but that was before I understood my role as a servant. Once I began to serve, God saw fit to bring life to my womb on five separate occasions, yet he took it away every single time.

Each loss brought me such pain, tearing holes in the fabric of my soul that will never be repaired. But with the pain of lost life came gratitude for a tormented future that was spared. I couldn’t bear the thought of bringing a daughter into this world, and so I knew the miscarriages were for the best, even though they pain me still.

Lifting the journal, I open it to the leather strap down the center of the page I had left off on. I find the next entry, dated July 8, 2171, when I was just a few weeks shy of my sixth birthday.

Sometimes I look at Mercy and wonder if I made a mistake allowing her to be born. I wonder if I should have found a way to end the pregnancy as soon as the successful implantation was confirmed. But that thought never lingers long because the thought of how beautiful and perfect she is quickly replaces it.

Her smile is sunshine, bright and wide and warming everything she shines upon. She’s full of lightness and life, naturally caring and concerned for the well-being of others. She notices when I’m sad—when melancholy over her future in service breaks through and shows on my face.

She comes to me in those moments and climbs onto my lap. She touches my cheek with her soft, tiny hand and smiles with those naturally pink lips and her unique silvery-blue eyes glowing up at me.

“It’s okay, Mama,” she’ll say. “I’m here with you.” Then she snuggles in close, hugging her arms around me tight.

And when she does, the whole world feels perfect…until she lets me go.

Then, all I can think about is her future of service. All I can think about is how she’ll be hurt, how she’ll be used by men.

They want me to take pride in that. They want me to be proud that I have such a beautiful daughter—a daughter who will serve so many in nights of purging.

But I’m beginning to think everything is wrong. I’m beginning to think God doesn’t exist. Because if He does exist, how could He possibly allow this to be done to our daughters? How could He allow them to live through such horror?

Am I the only woman who sees this?

Am I the only one?

Am I wrong?

Am I a sinner with a demon’s thoughts in my mind?

Should I take pride in knowing how Mercy will serve?

I don’t know how I ever could.

My pulse pounds as I read my mother’s words. She was afraid for me. She questioned the beliefs of our community, just as I do. She wondered if everything we’re told to believe is wrong. Her mind was that of a sinner’s, her thinking so similar to mine.

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