Chapter 1: Gijima - The Regimen’s Arrival

Fall: the season of death; the purge of a year. The only difference with this purge, I just turned sixteen. The age I was going to have my sweet sixteen! I would have a huge party and lots of friends would—

Ugh! I should stop being optimistic, I have to face it; Ma isn't coming back. Her last words wouldn't permit it such a gratifying act; words laced with defeat and mystery:

Fire flares, don't let it dare…

What is that supposed to mean? A ludicrous mantra? At this point the diction in such a mantra has gotten obsolete, not to mention tedious. It's been two months since my candles gave me their condolences emitted by their heat. That was the day of her death: when all hope drained from my soul. When a mysterious poison spread through her veins. Supposedly, it was fire that killed her. Tylo, the physician believed that to be the symptom at least. But I suspect her death was more complicated. Fire—she thought—would suffice my question: that was her cause of death. To satisfy my appetite for this unnecessary investigation. Maybe her idiocy was the cause; she's been at that, huh? My fists clench in a tenacious grip; blood decorates my dark lashes as I wipe my calloused hands across with my heavy eyes with a sense of resignation. I bite my lip to fight the tears, to fight my hormonal emotions. Every tear that streaks a path down my round cheel is another excuse I have for being vulnerable. I hate being vulnerable, regardless if there's an audience. Her demise infuriates me, in an inexplicit way. Why does it feel like a cruel dagger has made my body its niche? With my eyes brimming I let the anger take my body. I shouldn't let the anger carve my feelings. Taking a deep breath, I shape the ire into a mantra. I shall never be a foolish damsel in distress. I won't permit it. I can't. Fists with an appetite for violence, they pull me to the closest projectile: the wooden box Tylo had given me, with her ashes stored in a mere pouch! Each of my fists have their own bite to the wood. Several punches later, panting, I notice the scar on my wrist: a reminder of being Daddy's girl.

Scars on my body aren't rare, unlike girls who get mad over dirt in their nails; getting rough and dirty has been an essential in my life. Reminiscing the moment of the scar, I remember the taste of coal when Father brought me to one of his expeditions. He never wanted a girl that only cared about frivolous matters, such as, suitors, make up, and status. Changing the world was what he expected of me. Until, the tangs of coal turned out to be a toxic drug. Not the drugs that kill life, but what drives a man the opposite route of his initial mentality. I was holding his hand with both of us smiling. His smile then broadened, and he pulled me close, and he… did something unspeakable. Escaping wasn't an option. With my small body of an adolescent, shy of a twelve year old, I could only succumb.

"Damn it!" Punch after punch, I can't get the picture out of my head. His leer, his disturbing placement on my own body, his terrible laughs. Hands of a maniac, he clammed with an ironclad on my wrist. It wasn't until I knee him in the groin, that he let me go. Who would've known his peers thought it would be a wonderful idea to make a hoax of coal maintenance. His stupid lieutanent wanted to be generous to my father by letting him join the legion. "It's safe," they said. "No harm, kind sir," they said. "Your little girl will even enjoy it," I should've known that was a euphemism that possessed malicious intentions. The legion didn't send us to check on the coal, but he sent my Father and I to the territory of the most notorious spores in Terikin: the polexs. An aphrodisiac that makes a man do horrible things. Polex are only use for stupidity, like the stupid men, who utilized it. That's how I realize I was an idiotic Daddy's Girl. When Father left his family to proceed with his other passions.

Laying with girls a third of his age. Pathetic bastard.

Crimson covered my knuckles, a sigh of exhaustion on my lips. With deep breaths, I sit on my bed. Holding my head in my hands, I try to ease myself. No matter how much I try, how far I reach, I can't get over my struggles. How? How can someone let go of a demise?

Nonetheless, her last words anger me the most! Then, how her hands felt so undetermined when they fell from her chest—the motion showed her diminished confidence in herself. Did she even try and protect her life? She couldn't protect her life from fire? Why did fire become more important to her last five seconds of living than her own daughter? Fire, what? Don't get fired from your first job in the market?

Yeah, I'm fine, thank you very much. The market isn't that hazardous. It won't crumble from contact with me. I'm reliable in the workforce, I know I am.

I remember my furious mood that was transitioned from a sorrowful, remorse state, while repeating those four last words of my mother. At first I was having tears that had more leverage than the Terikin River. My tears weren't created by a split from a lover, like how you would think an ignorant, idiotic sixteen year old would make their sobs.

Oh no, mine were based on pure hatred and confusion.

I hated that I didn't know the truth of her death—her final words; I hated that I couldn't figure out why it had to happen to me. I'm not the most perfect daughter, nothing is perfect. Prior to her death, the circumstances were bizarre. There was no trace of fire until she died in her sleep. It's almost like she committed suicide…

No! Motives are essential for suicides, not to mention a note! Enemies may have been a motive but she was a popular and protected person in our community. Favors were given by mother to almost all of the South Terikin; their protection was her reward. Protection was an incentive for Ma, not only for her own, but for me. Did someone double-cross her? If so, who? And when? When did this bastard take advantage of Ma? I hate it! I hate being deceived by people, I believe that's what happened to me my whole life. I've never been truly certain with my surroundings. Hate is a strong word I understand, but nothing can describe the fire searing in my heart. Hate is what drives my actions, unfortunately. But what can I do? All that hate turns into confusion; though, should I be favoring hatred more or confusion? How should I feel with sorrow or hatred?

I guess I'll have to consult about my mom with—

Speak of the devil, it's like she jumped right out of my soon-to-be statement. Spontaneity is one of Ciara's strengths, unlike myself.

"Hey, what's up Kale?" Ciara fancies such a silly name, as a vegetable I despise, no less. I should be annoyed, but her humor sparks an inner laugh in me. It sparks the life that slips out of my grip everyday since Ma's demise. My cousin is a light in the darkness for me; if she were to be dead, I don't know what I'd do. All of my relatives are so optimistic; I got the rare disease: pessimism.

Ciara Regemi, my cousin who joined the household, I believe four months before Ma passed. I remember her expression when she stepped through the threshold. Living with Ma and I was always a sought wish for her, I'm not sure though. Supposedly, on account from Ciara, her parents were fighting too much that the tension influenced her twin brother, Caleb; however, I haven't known him long enough to comprehend how he's changed.

"Nothing really, got any favours to ask to be accomplished from me? Also," I turn to face Ciara , "How do you get 'Kale' from Gijima? Anyways, could you please stop calling me that?"

Ciara plasters her signature—more like exaggerated— frown, which is followed by a high pitched voice.

"You just hurt my feelings, aaaa—"

Metal boots slam the ground like earthquakes; shadows emerge into mysterious silhouettes approaching to enter the market…

Oh no...

The Regimen have arrived.