You feel, Child, the old woman told her, Voice hissing like the vents of the hot lake.
Yes, Mother, I answered. My voice feels so small and quiet compared to hers.
Tell Me, Child. Tell Me what you feel. Her Voice hoarse, like wind through the plains.
I, I hurt. A choke builds up, I cough.
Not Enough, Child. Tell Me how.
There is... I choke, a pressure in my chest--
What sort of Pressure, where?
Crushing, there is a vice, around my heart and lungs.
Good. Continue.
I feel ill, sickness in my stomach.
Feel it, my child. Let the sensation overwhelm you.
It already is! I don't want to feel it anymore!
My Child, came to me, you seek my Power. You must embrace your sensation.
But--
No buts! She grabs my shoulders, and I collapse, pressure overwhelming, a spinning
void of grey and mauve, crimson carmine.
We are in a graveyard, and I am in a grave. Dawn's Gray dances in the sky, and
sigils dance in my eyes, odd curves and lines and dots, merging and melding with each
other as an orgy of visual noise. I am covered in the dead vermillion, but Mother
promises that none will see. My eyes are open and my spell is wrought. I pull myself out
of the pit and see the gravedigger on his morning walk. We make eye contact but he looks
straight though me. The disolving mist of morn tugs as me as I walk down the lane, past
farmhands and cattle, past cats that hiss and flee. The people here are gray and blind,
they do not see a thing. The cool mud turns into cold cobble, and I find myself at the
door. It opens and his heart is mine.
But mine is empty.
I do not feel a thing.
