CIA
I never wanted to know when I would die.
But here I am.
Until a few days ago, I didn't know my own real name.
I didn't know that the island we live on of whose existence not one living soul knows about, is cursed.
I had unknowingly been hiding my true identity from the world all these years.
My life consisted of a pack of lies, all revolving around the one thing everyone had desperately tried to keep a secret from me.
They failed miserably.
A cold breeze brushes past me and I clutch the jacket firmly. The streets are dark, empty, lifeless, a reflection of what my inside was the last days and what still seeps through the cracks, coming to light in weak moments.
There are lampposts positioned every few meters, hovering above my fragile self that's supposed to radiate confidence. I pretend to be but I'm still thankful that the day hasn't arrived yet.
Maybe in the dark he won't see through the façade I'm putting up, right through the words I'm wisely choosing in my mind right now.
Can't fool Death though, can I?
The yellowish, dimmed lighting of the lamp posts gives the atmosphere an eerie and gloomy spirit, some of the light even flickers, throwing scary shadows on the ground. But I keep my gaze trained on the front, just walking to my destination, not letting my mind drift to any insane places.
As I saunter through the streets, I'm remined by the limbs, branches, logs, lumps of soil and remains of different things scattered on the ground of the storm that specifically chose our island to vent its anger on last week.
The streets are ravaged, destroyed. People locked themselves up in their houses for a week straight as ordered by the Ghost Republic.
No one was safe anywhere except in their home.
The storm did not bear with us at all. Forked lightning, peal of thunder, drenching rain, boisterous wind. Countless trees caught fire, multiple parts of the forest bursting into flames. The ashes and burned remains now on the forest ground as I walk through them. I have to take my steps carefully, one wrong move means a certain faceplant in the mud. It's an early morning parkour for me, hopping from here to there, climbing over things, pushing branches out of my way and sometimes even jumping is required.
In the dark it is hard not to miss or overlook an obstacle, and it's certainly not helping that I keep looking over my shoulder, making sure no psychopath or serial killer is considering me their newest first meal of the day.
The rain lasted longer than the storm itself, the puddles of muddy rainwater, some deeper and bigger than other, enough evidence and I try not to step in any of them. Ground is still wet, squelching at every contact with my feet.
I hate that sound.
It is terrifying and concerning what damage a mighty, violent storm can do. Doomed Lands had never faced such thing before. People were panic-stricken and almost out of their minds but their reaction was comprehensible. They didn't know how to deal with such a danger although that's not completely true either. We're trained, prepared for situations like these; islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean are often visited by unwelcomed storms.
We know that the number one rule is not to spread panic. Keep your temper. But it seemed like the moment the storm arrived, everything the people had learned just vanished, left their minds.
The only rule everyone stuck to was to not leave your home. To stay with your family, safe together, shielded from any dangers waiting for you outside.
No one would want to be alone when the world is going down.
I wish I had had a home.
But that place didn't feel like it anymore.
I was alone and scared and betrayed.
I thought the timing of the storm was perfect. There was a reflection of myself in it. Devastated, shattered, on the edge of the cliff. It gave me somewhat of a feeling of peace and suddenly I was alone but not lonely in this killing, consuming darkness.
Thankful to the Lord for the storm.
It was my friend.
I pass a lot of trees as I work my way through the challenging path, all of them looking similar, tall, alive, light, narrow. Their leaves carried by the wind down, their limbs losing their decoration, layers added to the ground.
There's one tree that doesn't fit into that part of the forest, not slim and tall like the others, but bulkier, shorter and more powerful.
All the leaves long lost in the puddle of ones under it.
It looks dark and not alive like the others.
I stare at it.
And how could I not recognize it?
YOU ARE READING
Ya'aburnee
FantasyWill you play the dark or will the dark play you? Cia was born with a part of her skin inked. She doesn't know that it makes her one of them until she finds out what the flames on her wrist mean. She is a target. The ultimate machine the Ghost-Re...
