Geshemsaga I
I’ve been wandering the desert since I woke up, looking for my next meal or my next drink of water. This had become normal for me. On the rare occasions that I ran into other people on these excursions they typically regarded me with curiosity or indifference, today however was different. I came upon a grizzled old man with long white hair and a flowing beard— he looked upon me with an expression that was unmistakably one of concern.
He approached me and asked, “what’s a young woman such as yourself doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I tried moving my lips but no words came out. Embarrassed, I shifted my feet and considered running away.
The old man stopped in place and called out, “I mean you no harm! There’s no reason to run, I just want to talk.”
My heart was pounding and my instincts were telling me to get away from him, but for some reason I felt compelled to believe him. I froze and considered my reply.
<<I’ve always been here,>> I thought to the old man.
He was visually disturbed by my telepathic reply. Perhaps more surprised than disturbed.
<<Always,>> he thought. <<How did you get here in the first place?>>
I adopted an inquisitve or puzzled expression and feigned ignorance. <<I don’t remember,>> I thought.
<<You don’t remember?!>>
The man seemed angry or dissatisfied with my response, and began to slowly approach me again.
Although I was still wary of the old man, I was confident—for some reason—that he wasn’t malicious. I stood my ground as he approached me, the air between us seemingly congealing into a paste or a jelly.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a variety of expressions on a person since I truly became self-aware. The next expression he showed me was one of regret or reluctance. His eyes began to glow as he thought, or commanded <<remember!>>
My first memory is laying in something like a cradle or a bed, a strange man is uncomfortably close to my face with what appeared to be some sort of shears or scissors with scalpels for blades. At the time I had no concept of tools or equipment, or even any idea who this man was, but I instinctually cried out in fear. Immediately afterwards a woman—my mother—appeared from another room and also cried out. In her case it sounded more like disgust or anger than fear.
The man froze in place realising that he’d been discovered, and in that same instant he was stabbed from behind. He stumbled and dropped his tool before falling to the ground himself. He didn’t get back up. I would later learn that he was my father.
Later I remember routine mealtimes with mother, she was getting thinner and thinner by the day. At this point she was all skin and bones. She kept insisting that I eat part of her portion during our meals, and I couldn’t understand why.
Soon I realised that it wasn’t just my mother, but the rest of the villagers too that were emaciated. They seemed to resent me and each other for merely still being alive. Occasionally I noticed that were stealing glances not at me, but at something in my eyes.
I found myself hoping that they would die sooner rather than later, I hated each and every single one of them. And soon they did, my mother first, and then the rest of them.
So I began to wander.
The old man’s face contorted in pain, and he had trouble staying on his feet. Soon he began to weep bitter tears. That was the first time that anyone had cried for me.