This is a work-in-progress, most definitely. It’s the first scene from the prologue of a prose piece I’m developing. It’s first draft, stream-of-consciousness stuff. Short enough to be worth a quick look.
The scared little girl stared with wide, hazel eyes at the dagger. The blade glistened in the passing starlight, casting sharp luminous beams on the dull grey walls of a room from which the light had long since fled. She wondered if she was doing the right thing. What if she wasn’t? What if someone caught her? What if…
The word was unspoken, but the confident young woman didn’t need to speak it out loud. She knew without a doubt this was the right thing. For too long she had endured unspeakable horrors at the hands of the Mistress. It was time for revenge.
Revenge isn’t going to bring them back, the scared little girl said wordlessly. Revenge won’t reverse time, won’t save home.
Fine, the confident young woman conceded silently. Not revenge. Freedom, then. Yes, this is about freedom. It’s the right of all living things. At least, that’s what dad used to say. The confident young woman reached for the dagger.
The scared little girl pulled her hand back. Dad would never want me to take a life.
If Dad knew what the mistress has done, he would kill her himself, the confident young woman countered. You know it’s true. It has to be done.
The scared little girl rose from the slab of a bunk and moved to the window. In the distance, she could see the massive convoy; the enormous transport ship, surrounded by numerous smaller – and extremely well-armed – ships. When I was younger, I remember being stung by a bee. It hurt. I cried. But not from the pain. I cried because I held the bee in my hand and watched it die without its stinger. It didn’t know what it was doing. It lashed out at me because it didn’t know any better. And it died. My pain went away, but the little bee was still dead.
The confident young woman looked with apprehension at the approaching ships. This is different. The bee caused a little bit of pain. The pain the Mistress inflicted will never go away. The scars will never heal. She didn’t just injure – she stole. She stole innocence. She stole childhood. She stole… so much more. And she did it willingly. She knew.
No she didn’t, the scared little girl said, tears forming in the corner of her eyes. She didn’t know. It was her nature. It was because she didn’t have a mom and dad who loved her. It’s not her fault. She tried to make it right. She taught me things…
Everyone is responsible for their own actions. That’s what dad said. We are who we choose to be.
The scared little girl was silent. It’s almost time, the confident young woman urged. We’re going to attack soon – there will never be another opportunity.
Asya Walker, the scared little girl, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. And Asya Walker, the confident young woman, stared back at her. Penetrated her. Took over her.
The Mistress must die. Not for revenge. For freedom.
Asya’s slender fingers closed around the wooden handle of the simple dagger. The Mistress had forced her to craft it long ago, when Asya had been the scared little girl. She had said it was to protect Asya – and protect her it had, many times. But today, it would do more than just offer protection. Today, it would free her.
The dull gray interior of Asya’s quarters lit up. The vessel shook violently. Asya pressed her face against the window. Silent fire exploded from the canons on the escort frigates. The convoy had seen them. The time had come.
The Mistress must die.