Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 12
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Deafening Silence
It is the dark of night, though there are sweltering sands carried by heavy winds burning my feet as I walk at a somnolent pace into an unknown void. Estranged and afraid, I begin panting in desperation for a cold breath to soothe my burning lungs, only to inhale more of the fiery air smoldering them. The pumping of my heart becomes loud, creating a penetrable sound as its extreme drumbeat sings a thumping song of fear, while I cry out, “Hello? Is there anybody here? I am lost…” My voice trails off, as if to indicate that I’m alone in this insufferable realm and that exerting my lungs to speak is futile, but I continue shouting into the blank until I’ve exhausted my windpipes, and only the resonance of my voice echoes in response.
I suddenly feel a cold eeriness come over my body. This is not an inviting sensation, approaching terror, but I’m too curious to turn back the way I came. If I had, what good would it do me? I have no idea where I am and how I became here. A sudden clatter without revealing motion disorients the moment. I had hoped for such a sound, but didn’t anticipate it, and my heart jerks with intensity. Unexpectedly, a young girl appears from nowhere. She seems unaware that she stands directly in my line of tangible vision, my only focal point, as if she doesn’t have any idea I’m here. A combination of the darkness and her remoteness makes it hard to see her in perfect view at first, so I walk closer, ever so reluctant as a fearful spectator. What I can make out is her dress, long and torn, as if she had been in these clothes for centuries and they’re weathered from continuous use. The closer I get, the more I note an eerie resemblance. She looks quite a bit like I did at her age, almost exact, but she carries what seems to be the symbol of the Udjat on her shoulder, shaped exactly like the Eye of Horus. I try to think logically in an attempt to bring sense and clarity to this unusual scene. But it is impossible to understand why this girl is in front of me, especially when I have no explanation for why I am here myself.
While struggling to find a shred of reason to cling to, figments of other beings begin to arrive in view, and they don’t notice me, just as she doesn’t. They don’t even seem to sense my presence.
My gut creates a vibe I can’t ignore. Something seems dangerous about the situation, like an evil presence lurking around this girl, around me. I know that something terrible is about to take place by the anxiety projected off her face, and I can feel it like it’s my own.
I suddenly become aware of several large disfigured men pursuing her. One of them, large enough to grasp both of her wrists in one hand, ties her hands firmly together behind her back, forcing her to her knees. They cover her eyes with a blindfold while she fights relentlessly by kicking and trying to pull away in a panic. The other men trail off into the distance towards what seems to be more victims. I can scarcely make out what looks like a mother crying at her daughter’s capture, and with two smaller children in her arms, as she kneels beside them holding them tightly. I allow myself to become consumed by fear as I freeze in useless terror. Maybe she needs help? I try to convince myself with all of the clout I can muster to force away from the paralyzing fear. My legs won’t move, no matter how hard I try. I attempt to scream, but my voice is too brittle to force out the words. I want to reach out and stop everything. But I am just as much a figment to them as they are to me, and nothing more. That is my only justification for inaction.
In an instant of recollection, a sense of familiarity hits me full force. It is the type of memory that escapes you (or you escape from) until the day you’re forced to recall a part of your past. It feels like a reflection of my younger self, kneeling at this man’s feet, and I can sense this treacherous heartache as if it is my own, and perhaps it is. I recognize the familiarity, but I don’t understand the correlation besides the overtones of déjà vu. Even so, my impulse, infused with fear, overcomes any sense to give in to the obsceneness and panic that has been feeding on me since I found myself here. Here in this obscure memory, with a young version of myself unaware of my presence.
Just behind her, I witness men in arms gripping firmly at the mother’s hair, close enough to her skull to hold her head immobile. Still with both of the toddlers in her arms, crying in a panic, the man uses his other hand to cut effortlessly at the mother’s throat with a large, sickle-shaped blade. With a swift jerk of his blade, her head falls to the ground, and her body is limp in an instant. He then takes the children by their necks, which are horrified and screaming at their mother’s demise. One at a time, he snaps at their throats until they too lay limp and silent beside their mother, who is still oozing blood into a puddle around them. The older girl is dragged away, and though spared from seeing her family’s ill-fated death, she could hear the sounds of her terrified siblings just before their lives are shortened by the soldier’s hands.
Still paralyzed by fear, I want to reach out and stop the chaos, but I cannot. I try to close my eyes and will them to become shields protecting me from these surreal images—to no avail. The screaming still resonates in my mind. And I know this girl, whose family was butchered in the sand while she was forced down and blindfolded, and I can feel the emotional pain she felt being ripped from her mother and siblings. This causes a surge of overpowering anger that frees me from my paralyzed stupor. I will break her free, protect her from these demonic men. Coughing saliva from the back of my throat to wet my tongue, I gather all the determination I have and shout to create a distraction, bring the doom onto me, and protect this girl from being dragged off into the desert. I use some of the pent-up aggression growing in my core, fueled by my frustration at being able to do nothing but witness this brutality since arriving here, to scream, but there is no reaction. Though I did summon a noise of protest, the air never reaches the brutal scene, and never exceeds my immediate vicinity, because petrified murmurs swallow my voice. I continue to rage as if I am the one tied down and as if it were my family mutilated. I try once more to scream as hard as I possibly can, and as I do, my body is shaken, my face begins to sweat, but all I can produce is an airless shriek.