"On the day of my baptism, I killed my father..."
So begins the story of Elektra Voltare, a teenager raised in a monastery, bred for an environment of mass extinction, wracked with guilt over having caused the death of her parents, and separated fro...
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WHAT DO ANY of us really know about our parents? What do we want to know? We all surmise that something happened, something that resulted in conception. That's a pretty big something. A normal person might wonder about that—or avoid wondering. Only an exceptional person wonders how they managed to kill their parents, though. That's something that you would think would stick in your mind. But what does anyone remember from the time when the length of their life was measured in days or weeks?
What I know of my father and mother's lives, I know from the journal my father kept, which Father Salvatore delivered to me on my sixteenth birthday. I cherish the journal, but it was hardly the thing I expected for my sweet sixteenth. Father Salvatore understandably never had a daughter. What I know of my parents' deaths, I know from the news articles in the scrapbook Father Salvatore delivered with the journal. Yeah, so most kids my age would search the factbase or the mindstores on their cell phones for information, but I had not mastered using any form of computer or phone technology. Just being near such tech would realign all the bits to zero, resulting in a catastrophic failure and a need to completely reimage the device.
"I thought you should have these, now. You're old enough to know all the details of your parent's lives." Father Salvatore didn't smile. He rarely did. Sometimes the sisters smiled, but mostly, they were a pretty serious bunch, as well. Except for Sister Mary Grace. Once, Sister Agnes sent me to fetch Sister Mary Grace for dinner. When I knocked and entered Sister Mary Grace's cell, I found her in what I could only call a state of ecstasy as she contemplated the cross. That was a smile. It spooked me. I had to shake her to break her out of it. The sisters were mostly kind, but they were dead serious about prayer, and prayer was the thing they did most.
"Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday." Father Salvatore said, smiling now. He handed me a small, gift-wrapped box.
"Oh, Father, you did not have to get me a gift." I opened the box and there was the silver crucifix pendant I have worn ever since around my neck. The only jewelry I wear.
"I blessed it for you. You will likely need protection in the days to come."
"Protection, Father? Protection from what?"
Father Salvatore sighed. "Evil. Even here in our monastery, you cannot have too much protection."
I paused a moment contemplating this ominous purpose for my birthday gift. Deliver us from evil, that was the petition of the Lord's Prayer, after all. So, why wouldn't a priest see such purpose in a silver cross? I kissed Father Salvatore on the cheek. "I am so grateful to you and the sisters. I realize I am a burden and don't pull my weight here."
"Don't be silly, my girl. The Poor Clares are a contemplative order and not called to provide hospitality, but it has been good for them to have a child to care for, and likely the best place for one in your situation. Removed from the world as they are, it is good to have a little something of the world here with them. And it is safe. The world outside has become dangerous for you."
