Sprawled on the cruel floor, she took one lingering look at the piece of broken glass a short distance away. All she could was see her past. What she thought, compared to what was. The piercing blades of almost exact, outstandingly sharp memory tore through the hardened bulge that was her heart, just as her skin have way to the sharpened blades of the men.
It was clear. It was like looking in a video feed, a summarized clip of the events that got her here. She was adored, appreciated, heck, worshipped. She belonged. The enchantress of indulgence she was, the concentration she survived on, and how she ensured she got it.
She wiggled her two feet. She shifted her gaze from the seemingly enchanting mirror, but that didn’t break her from her trance. She coughed and sputtered. Streaks of blood flew in a race over the sidewalk. Every drop tried to outdo the other. Speed. Distance. It reminded her of herself, how she competed to be special. No one noticed. The people believed they were too ignorant to reason. They were wrong.
The shrine had the same exact air as did the superior world. Envy, hate, love, fear resided among the flock. There was respect and disrespect, even among the six of them, as minor a number as that was. Death was their eventual end, death for the salvation of a soul, or the demise of one, death for atonement, death whatsoever. Since they were seven, from nine initially, they had learnt to live without fear of death, accept it with muffled moans when it came to them.
They were six then, and she was special. She ruled over the rest. The men gave her more attention, sang praises of her. She was most likely the least likely to see death soon, or so she thought. She woke up every morning to special food, looked better than the rest definitely. Two of the rest respected her, two were diplomatic, one was a rival. All the ill feelings were towards this one, and she employed multiple tactics to ensure she was a favorite. And yes, she was.
She drifts back to reality. She tries to kick but the men have her held tightly. Actually, its just one man. The rest are watching. The visitors too. Pitiful eyes hoping that this act will be the saving grace for them. What did these ones want? She looks at the small crowd. A man, a woman, most probably his wife, and a young boy with a sly smile. He was chained. With two hefty men holding him. It was easy to figure out. They wanted a sane son.
The ritualist moved the knife to her neck. She looked at him looking for some signs of remorse or pity. She was seeking for some sort of attachment. There was none. Men don’t get attached to her kind, at least sane men. In four zigzag swipes, he’s off with half of her neck. He pours her blood into a bowl. She’s still conscious. She’ll still be for about a minute, even if her head is severed from her body. Her body will move. Her head will watch, motionless. Her mind will roam. And then what happens? She does not know. She’s scared.
It dawns on her. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t being treated special all those weeks because she struggled for it. She was being fed well to make her perfect. The perfect hen for the sacrifice for a mad boy.
***Written By Opemipo Aikomo***