Child of the Storm
A young girl sits alone in a forgotten corner, watching the foreplay of two powerful forces before her with dull, silver eyes. Her tongue darts out, flicking across her lower lip, but if it is to moisten the skin or if it is a prelude to the taste of blood, no one - let alone her - can tell. Her eyes glimmer in the strange light, giving shimmers of both evil joy and heartbreaking sadness. Her fingers clench over and over into her palms, leaving red and sore half-moons from her nails, wanting to feel, wanting to see, wanting to know.
The strain before her crackles with an electric intensity, the kind of energy that raises the hairs on the back of one's neck just before the storm breaks free in all its terrible glory. Her too thin chest heaves in hungry pants as she desperately fights for the live-giving oxygen she will need in the upcoming battle. Lightning flashes, followed too quickly by a deafening slap of thunder. The young child's eyes flicker towards the window, where the aftermath of light can still be seen, but the lids do not close against the dead orbs in response to the brilliance. That is for lesser mortals, those that have not lived through or survived what she faces every day.
With that release of energy, the tempest brakes forth with an almost startling vigor in her face. Her lips twitch in what could either be pain or glee as she stretches out her hands to feel the icy hot drops against her palms, both irritating and soothing the bloody marks. The overpowering music of clashing energy rocks relentlessly in her ears, causing her to sway her chest and head to and fro in response to the beat. Lightning and thunder, two forces she both loves and hates with all her heart, first leaning towards one, then paying favor to the other with her body, as her shadow waves grotesquely behind her against the two walls.
Yet still they battle, heedless of how she is caught up by them, how she is forced to dance to their endless rhythm. Now the strains compel her to her feet, and they move beneath her body to add a new dimension to her warped waltz. Back and forth her legs step, moving her still swaying body forwards to them and back to the safety of the walls, both pleading for their attention and condemning them for their actions, retreating from them and embracing them. The salty wetness on her cheeks is a blessing, cooling her overly-hot skin, dampening the fever that roared just beneath the surface.
But then she dances too close, and is hit almost absently by lightning. Dazed by the unexpected blow, she stumbles in her dance, only to be struck again by the thunder. Lost and confused by the open rejection from that which she loves, the girl falls blindly forwards, only to be thrown back with an angry shout against the former shelter of her corner.
And then the blackness before her eyes turns red; the silver fades to dust. Her hand raises uncertainly up, accusingly, dripping with her own life. But for the first time she sees it, in all its graceful beauty, and accepts it and all it represents for her own, all her own. It is the first and last thing she sees.
And then she is dancing among the sweet and welcoming raindrops, laughing and living with her brothers and sisters. With an endless joy and release, they dance to the stars, leaving the girl's angry parents of thunder and lightning far, far behind, to quarrel and kill as they wished, stripped of the last of their innocence and salvation.