Friday, October 9, 2015

The mother's cry

A mother painfully watches as her daughter is  executed

The pain I was feeling was worse than labour, it was worse than the bitter cold. I felt her screams rip through me in one fluid movement that I fell to the ground and sobbed. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and I screamed. I reached for her, I panted until I was hoarse and weak. She reached for me and I couldn’t help, if I could take my life in exchange for hers, there was no doubt that I would, but I was unable to do and I felt like it was my fault, I created her, I should be able to help her.

“She didn’t do it!” I shouted to the executioner, but he grinned, the man with the mask over his face, exposing only his bright green eyes.  I wanted to read them, but they were so still that I couldn’t even guess what expression those eyes held, they were still and glossy. He held his fixed gaze on me and I wanted him to feel the tiniest bit of pain that I was feeling, but he only walked on, taking big steps, as though he wanted to get over with the job, to make me experience everlasting torture, to carry this burden on my back until my death, which I guess won’t be long from now.

She screamed as he got closer. I could feel the tear-drops cling to me, the symbol of her pain and fear embraced me that once more I feel into a heap of hands that tried to help me up. The sky wasn’t even dark, the sun was shining, and the light breeze was too calming. I needed dark skies to match my gloom, thunder to match my anger and raindrops, to show that God was crying with me, but I felt mocked on this beautiful day.

She briefly held up her head and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. She was tired, her lips were bruised, and her head was a tangled mess. I tried to remember my dark eyed, strong daughter, who didn’t play with dolls, but used wood as swords. 

She was crying with her arms stretched across with a rope that marked her skin and made them torn and dark.

The women looked on me as I carried on, as I shouted. The easy target because she has no husband. She doesn’t have a beautiful house and her daughter was a rebel. Some were satisfied; some pitied me, while others blankly stared. I tried to reach out to them, to make them side with me, to just make me feel as though I wouldn’t go crazy, but they only looked at me and soon, their blank stares turned to cold steel that made a chill run down my spine.

He lifted the axe, it glinted in the sun. He closed his eyes briefly when her desperate scream tore through the air and I had lost my voice. He held his hand in the air and turned to me. I clasped my hands as though I was praying. I pleaded, but he only shook his head, in such a way that confused me, but I knew that he couldn’t help me. 

I sank lower in the crowd when his hand went down and I could feel my daughter’s fear on my back, covering me like a blanket, that couldn’t shield me from a harsh winter day. I heard her grunt when his arm went down a little more. I whispered the Lord’s Prayer, my fingers trembling, my eyes unable to produce the fluid that would make God pity me, then it was done, I heard the thud.

They walked away slowly and I was rocking back and forth, hoping that I would soon awake from my dream. The rain came, but the sky was still blue, the red fluid that flowed through her for seventeen years trickled towards me then disappeared, but it wouldn’t stop pouring from her. She was a rebel to them, she left her mark on their hearts, and killing her wouldn’t erase her words from their minds. She would be forever remembered as the girl who spoke against the king.

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