parт one: cynoѕυre
prologυe
"Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God."
-The Doors, 1991
No safeguard or safekeeping.
Inside the closet was cold, damp. It do not do well to wear such thin clothing now, no longer sufficient in the bitter cold of the cramped space, when just hours before the heat was so sweltering she was sure she would be cooked alive. She clutched at the cloth that hung off her body in rivulets, trying to control the tremors that wracked through her body. Just outside the door, she could hear the shrieks of women, the shouts of men. She could hear the guards scurrying about, their ominous footsteps inspiring fear in her heart.
Plagues of death and war.
The woman just opposite of her sat proudly, her back straight and hands stilled in her lap. She did not fear what was on the other side of that door. She had no fear for the unknown. “Are you almost ready, Henning?” Her voice was soft, but it did not comfort the little girl cowering in fear. “Do you remember what I’ve told you?”
Intoxicated with misery.
She ran. When the time came, she ran as fast as she could—as far as she could. The woman who had been with her, her mother, stood to negotiate with the men, to distract them from the child with torn clothes and bare feet. The night air was still so unforgiving. But she ran. And never once did she look back.
YOU ARE READING
Labyrinthine
Teen FictionShe was an enigma to those who were unaccustomed to greatness. A conundrum to ordinary people—people like him.
