She Soared When In The Worst Of It

Life is a bubble of sorts. All nuances are felt through the fine filmy distortion that a bubble induces. You see curves where there are none. You find color that is reflected when only light is playing upon your film.

If this bubble were to burst you would see nothing, for life would have ended. Or your eyes would have to be shut forever, and this will never happen again.

You asked for, and were given, thoughts that led you to visions of great despair and anguish, of a prison cell both small and long against the wall of stone that soon became your so-called grave. Walled up in a space so small you could not find your body parts, for the stench and the pain were blinding to the blinded eyes, there was no world to contemplate, and so nothing but senses to torment you further.

For the child, the bubble of life did burst – when deceived, when spoken to as a devil incarnate, when chosen for sacrifice to the only God who knew she lived or died, when abandoned by her savior, or told he did not care for her any longer, when the eyes in her head were taken out without a reason, when the tongue she used to answer their questions was forced out of her head in anger and in anguish.

The bubble was already gone when her body was deformed by starvation and brutal treatment, by curses and by deprivation. There was no play of light upon her film, there were only raw senses that were cruel in their depiction of what was happening to her while still alive and in the body.

But an altered mental state is mild compared to what her imagination did accomplish.

She soared when in the worst of it, and landed only when the pain numbed her enough to focus upon the world again. Caught, if that word is strong enough to please you. Held by the grip of torment, or perhaps by the thought of abandonment.

For a time, long or short it matters not at all, you knew you were about to pass from the living world, but did not ever know that freeing sense – it never came.

It never came.