By Maya Petzoldt, TIWP Student
A look of defeat takes over my face as I watch my life get played out before my eyes, and the eyes of my best friends, my team, and the eyes of my worst enemy. I can hear their silent gasps behind me, and I can only imagine the looks of horror on their faces as the scenes whip by. My birth, cursed with blonde hair and light skin, only further pushed down a terrible path by the blue moon hanging ominously in the sky. My adventure through my early years as my father abandoned my mother, claimed she betrayed him by having me. As she claimed there was no other man than him, there was no one with light skin in this land, who could it have been? As my mother kicks me out of the house, or shack really, in a blind rage. Screaming and claiming that I am at fault for everything that has ever happened to her. It’s all my fault, that’s all she ever said.
As I wander the streets for a year before an orphanage takes me in. One that’s shrouded in forests and shamed by every village within ten miles. I learn to hold a bow, shoot an arrow, swing a sword, and wield a spear, things I know my teammates don’t know I can do. As I learn to command the keys of a piano, pull the strings of a harp, play a guitar, and stir the notes of a flute. These are things I am known for, the memory I chose to keep from that place. We all watch as the villagers come to burn the orphanage, as they trap every child inside, as they burn them as they were, a family. I almost smile a little, I know they died in the best way they could. They died together, something they were proud to be. They could have died lost on the road only a few years older. But no, they died just as they lived, together. I hear even more gasps, even more cries from behind me as the next part plays out, the part where I stand in the back of the crowd, a cloak over my head and an unlit match in my hand.
We all watch as I walk away, carefully stepping over a wet line of liquid on the ground that the others can not identify. They watch as I glance at the proud villagers, all congratulating each other on their work. They watch as I light the match, looking into the flames for only a second before dropping it in the liquid and walking away. I hear their horrified sounds as blue flames rise high behind my walking form, and the screams of the villagers ring throughout the soon to be silent forest. They go quiet as memory and look at me, not a speck of remorse to be found in my cold, dead eyes. Memories continue to flash by, of me stealing to starting to play music in bars, the same bars my friends found me in. I know they probably can’t believe their eyes, that their silence is their denial. How could their happy-go-lucky musician have such a tragic past? As the memory scenes end, and the wall goes blank as the magic runs out, my raven haired enemy cackles. He turns around, his long, braided, black hair swinging around as he wipes tears from his eyes. “Oh-ha, oh Del, I knew you didn’t have a great life, but oh boy, I did not see that coming. You came from nothing just to become nothing! How comical is that?”
As he laughs more, I give a tight lipped expression before getting to my feet, brushing off my tan pants. As I straighten up, I can see Freryer, the black haired guy, looking with a smug, amused, elated smirk. With a sigh, I don’t dare look back at my comrades, but instead begin to speak, looking at where my memories were once displayed. “I can’t say I regret it.”
Freryer looks taken aback for a second, and I entertain the thought that my friends probably have a similar expression. I carry on before either party can ask what I mean. “The burning, I can’t say I regret it. I don’t know if it was wrong or right, or if it was just. But you know what, I never claimed it was. I did what I did that day with intent, and intent that was fulfilled. I don’t know if I would do it again, but I know I don’t regret it. I’m not going to try and excuse my actions, I know some of them probably aren’t excusable. But nonetheless I did them, I can’t change that.”
I pause for breath, and run a hand through my dirty blonde locks. Freryer takes this pause to butt in, and I put my hands at my side with a relaxed stance as he speaks. “Why aren’t you crying for forgiveness, crumpling from your horrible past? You are destroyed, broken-”
“Of course I’m broken, we’re all broken or cracked in some way, that’s how the light gets in.”
Freryer’s lanky form straightens back up and an angered expression places itself over his tan face. I smile at him, with a face that says what-you-gonna-do. He clenches his fist before pulling his sword out of its sheath at his side, and he gets ready to charge. He says one more thing. “But- but you’re broken.”
I only shrug, saying-“Beautiful mosaics are made of broken pieces.”
By Maya Petzoldt, TIWP Student