The Orion's Daughter : To Lands Beyond

A Needed Helping Hand

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Chapter Three | A Needed Helping Hand

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"Where are you going Illy!?" shouted Jul. I heard him and the others' voices getting fainter and fainter the longer I ran. With the taste of iron in my mouth, I didn't let myself stop running. It was disgusting, like sucking on a coin.

My lungs burned. Every muscle screamed at me to stop, pleading for just one moment, while my toes throbbed and stung. I knew immediately the moment it happened that I smashed one of my toes and probably ripped off the nail from another when I tripped back in the town.

Still, I didn't let myself stop running until I made it to the fields and familiar dirt roads.

The moment I was out of their ranges, I let myself collapse. They wouldn't go further than the border of the town. Those thugs didn't like going out so far into the fields.

City scum – the whole lot of them.

I hunkered down against one of the posts that held up the two-board fence and let my frustration well up inside me until it spilled out into tears.

The whole scene played out from behind my eyes. It was there, like a relentless nightmare, and every blink reminded me of what just transpired. I tried telling them to go away, but that first boy shoved me from behind. The moment I turned around, the next one shoved me too. It was that shove that pushed me to the ground.

As I scrambled to get up, heart pounding out of my chest, I felt them grab at my ankles. I kicked out. It was the first good blow I managed to get in, whacking one of Jul's goons in the nose with my heel. I was on my feet in an instant, but then Jul snagged my collar and shoved me against the wall. That must've been when I bit my tongue because that was the instant I tasted iron.

Gross.

I got in a few punches, but not before they pushed me around some more. I smashed into a barrel, which I knew was going to leave a bruise, and managed to land okay on the ground. I spotted a patch of grit and gravel on the road and knew I had my chance.

I snatched a handful of dirt and grit off of the ground and threw it into my attackers' eyes. They howled in pain and confusion, which gave me a chance to get up and start the sprint of my life.

The whole way, I heard them calling out to me, shouting at me – the Illy – asking why I wouldn't stay and that they could teach me so many things.

Cowards.

They wouldn't have ganged up on me if they were alone. I could have taken them one on one.

Well...

Maybe...

I thought I could take them. I wanted to be able to take them. I curled further in on myself and continued to let the tears spill from the corners of my eyes.

Why?

Why did they have to be so horrible to me?

The word – that name – rang over and over in my head.

Illy.

Illy.

Illy.

It was slang, a derogative term used for children born to unwed mothers – mothers like my mom.

Illy.

Illegitimate.

A child who is an "Illy" is a silent mark on the family. It says that someone or both parties couldn't control themselves, and that they did it often enough to produce a child. It's not a crime to be in love. It's not a crime to show your love. Still... a tradition is a tradition. There's a reason it has endured.