The wail of a broken instrument.

The hair on my head looked like strings. They used to be thin, black strings. Now they are damaged. They have split at the ends.

My mother and I lived peaceful lives, but that too, has been splintered. I’ve been trying to remember what she looked like, but her face has faded. There used to be enough room to remember, but ever since they bleached my hair, the floors have cracked. And when they dyed it, whatever was left of the past had been flooded with blue.

The only thing I clearly remember was her tail. She was a satyr who believed life itself could be an art. Creation was art, and art was living.

She used to make decorations out of lumber. Toys, birdhouses, napkin holders. All of her strength was to chop down the dying trees. Then she carved. And one day, she finally made a viola. She sanded the body, painted it, added a layer of slack, and finally tuned her own strings.

She taught me how to sing. She asked me to dance while she plucked. It was never perfectly in tune. Sometimes the melody scratched my ears. But somehow, she managed to make it sing every time she played, and her tail would swing on every third or fourth downbeat.

I was 15 when they came.

The crusaders needed recruits.

My village was on fire.

They told my mother they needed the kids.

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me.

They had already dragged me away before she could utter a word.

I don’t know what happened to her viola. I tell myself it couldn’t have been destroyed. Our house was okay. But the wooden floors of my mind had already cracked when I saw what they had done. It was painful, but the wood soaked in the flames, and chipped off whatever I could remember of my mother’s face.

I never got to play the viola.

My hair was no longer mine.

Breakfast. Instruction. Failure. Sleep.

Again.

Eat the rice. Heed instructor. Fail to learn. Go to sleep.

Again.

I eat with dawn. I train from instruction. I fail to practice. I sleep in my bed.

The others throw their punches and I am forced to shuffle. My mother applauds as I spin to safety. She watches as I bruise my knuckles, knocking down the onslaught of peers. She doesn’t see their blood on the ground. She smiles. Her daughter can truly leap, and she dodges until I collapse. I’ll sleep til I’m dead, but they keep turning the lights on.

...

“Are you alright?”

Seraphine slowly opened her eyes, unsure if she was blind or not. Room painted white. Lights shined in white. She laid on the white floor.

Over her stood the lady in white. White suit, white hair, light skin, and gleaming red eyes. Seraphine recognized this figure, and quickly sat herself up.

“Madame.” She sharply attempted to stand, but lost her balance. She had never seen any overseer’s face up close, let alone the Madame herself.

The lady smiled at her.

“Please, just call me Antoinette.”

Antoinette lent a hand to help her up. Seraphine took it.

“I have pulled you out of the training program.”

“Am I in trouble?” Seraphine asked.

Antoinette smiled and shook her head. “You are exceptional for a 17 year old.”

Seraphine’s eyes widened. “What?”

Antoinette put her hands on her shoulders. “You are being promoted.” She grinned. It seemed she always grinned. “I have high expectations your assistance will be dependable.”

...

She’s been holding my hand a lot.

Sometimes while we are having private discussions, she’ll put her hand on my face. When I lean against it, she looks at me with such warmth. I think it’s warmth. Then she’ll hug me. She’ll even tell me I’m pretty once in a while.

I’m the only one who has met her son, though that will change soon. He was left for dead, but she saved him. He seems to be alone often. She says it is for his safety.

Every now and again, I visit him to read fairy tales. He asked if I could teach him how to read. I did my best. He’d cheer every time we would read Shakespeare. He asked when his mother would let him meet the other kids. I was hesitant.

She told me not to tell anyone about our rendezvous. They will try to kill me if they know we are close. All of the trainees are power hungry. All of the soldiers are jealous. They are not as strong as me. The will use me. Do not trust them. For her sake, don’t trust anyone.

I haven’t.

I like to believe we have comfortable silences.

I like to believe we can be happy like this..

In silence. Next to each other.

Alone.

Together.

“Do you care for me?” Antoinette asked.

“Yes,” I exclaimed. “I would do just about anything for you.”

We were laying next to each other in a field one night. Stargazing. Away from everything. Our sanctuary with the birds. She leaned closer to me.

“Anything?” She asked.

I remember how ecstatic I felt in this moment. I must have been beaming. My cheekbones started to hurt but I couldn’t help holding them up.

“Of course!”

Then she kissed me.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“You adore me?

“Yeah..”

“How auspicious.”

Song simmered in my chest. A viola that wanted to stay awake forever. No one else could hear my symphony, but the birds were disturbed enough to fly away.

This was sacrred.

I must have mattered to her.

Do you love me too?

What did you just say?

I love you. Do you love me too?

…

Did I say something wrong?

..

Maybe we should stop. And just. Talk.

.

I can’t breathe.

It hurts.

Please.

It hurts.

I’m sorry.

It hurts.

I’m sorry for upsetting you.

I’m grateful you’re giving me a second chance. I won’t give you trouble ever again. I should’ve gotten over myself.

I’m so sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry for being so selfish.

...

“Chrys?”

A new general. 20 year old with what looked like small antlers growing out of his blonde hair. Chrysanthemum Corday. He turned around and saw the timid woman. The one who always kept to herself. She could barely stand upright.

“Would you consider yourself responsible?”

Chrys shrugged. “Depends on why you’re asking”

She looked at his shoes. They were cleaner than the ones he wore when he first enlisted.

“Why do you follow every order you’re given? How do you do it?”

He noted the curiosity in her eyes. “Is this something you’d ask General Harse?”

She shook her head.

“I’m just trying to survive, I guess.”

She lowered her head. “Right..of course.”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s been insinuated I’m not trying hard enough.” She awkwardly forced a laugh. “I want to understand what I’m doing wrong.”

Chrys eyed her mannerisms, and almost smiled. “I’m meeting someone soon, but if you want, I could perhaps spend time with you instead.”

She shook her head, and slowly walked away.

Old strings carry a song they can no longer give.

My body is no longer mine.