The Story of Me
"A lady has modest and maidenly airs and a virtue I somehow suspect that I lack.  It's hard to remember these maidenly airs in a stable laid flat on your back."

"Blows and abuse I can take and give back again.  Tenderness I cannot bear."

"Yes, yes, I've heard it all before.  I'm so full of it my eyes are brown."

"We tried doing what we should; wasn't glad.  Then we learned that feeling good means doing bad."

"It's not about money, it's about power."
As unbearable as my grandfather could be, I had the loving protection of my parents to shield me from his true violence.  All of this would change in one fatal night who's deadly fingers would reach far beyond my own personal tragedy, destroying the city itself.  I was eight years old at the time.  Owen and I attended missionary school, walking to and from classes every day with the four siblings next door, two of whom were brown eyed.  I shall never
soon forget that night.  In a fatalistic and metaphorical sense, it was the night of my own death, or perhaps the beginning of a very long, slow death.  It had rained the whole day.  We thought nothing of it at the time, it often rained for days during the spring.  The five of us sat in the salon, my father playing the piano while my mother taught me and my brother a new song.  Grandfather Micino sat in the corner with a pipe.  There was a loud thumping on the door.  Father answered, Owen and me at his feet.  One of the brothers from the missionary was there.  He warned us a flash flood was descending on the town.  Without a moment of hesitation, my parents had my grandfather hitch our horse to a cart.  With my brother, I was bundled into the cart
and the three of us set off for higher ground.  My parents were to follow after they liberated our livestock.  I don't remember many of the things that happened afterward, but there is one instant, one glimmer of light that will forever be a flashbulb memory for me.  It's an abstract image, but until the day I die, I will attest to it as a reality.  Sitting in the back of the cart, I recall looking down into the valley where our house was, seeing the bright flash of lightening which illuminated the immense flood of water that filled the village.  A lot of people survived that terrible flood, but my parents were not among them.  They found my mother's body, bloated and torn.  She was washed nearly three miles outside of the town.  My father was never found.  Relief workers came from the castle to help rebuild Saria, but things would never be the same.  Grandfather Micino moved us back into the house three weeks after the flood.  Most of our things were destroyed.  The personal affects of my parents that remained were sold.  My grandfather had a firm sense of what proper upbringing was for children and in his old age, he never wavered.  When we were bad, we were taken into the cellar and beaten with his beltstrap.  When we were good, we were ignored.  I sought solice with the boy next door, the firstborn of the brown eyes, but when I was nine or ten, he and his siblings left Saria, never to return.  We were one of the few families to return to Saria and a change had taken place.  A new kind of settler had arrived, the peasant farmer.  The quality of life in Saria was taking a severe turn when a new shock came that would change my life.  Her name
was Kara Fanel, a beautiful, perfect blue eyed Hylian girl.  Grandfather Micino found her in the woods helpless and lost.  He brought her home to live with us, taking a particular interest in her that at the time seemed a mystery to me.  He called her "little one" and "Kyraa."  He used to pat her head and tell her that she was sweet.  They went for long walks in the forest during the summer, leaving me and Owen alonen for hours on end.  Kara became his treasure.  He never dared to raise a hand or belt against her.
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