Made for Him Part One
The first thing I remember is a lullaby. It never made any sense to me and I can’t remember the words, but I remember people singing it to me, soft and gentle. Probably my parents, though I can’t be sure. It could have been any of a dozen people. It always sounded like more than two people.
They sang it to me every night from the day I was born. It was comforting to me as a child. It promised so much. At least, I think it did. It seems that way now. I felt like there was something magical being promised to me when it was sang, like every night was Christmas Eve. Something vague and intangible, something too good to be true.
I felt like there was love all around me, in their voices. I felt like I was the most special girl in the world. And they agreed with that. They always said I was special. That I was chosen. That I would always be happy.
I can still hear it sometimes, just a melody in my head whenever I think too much. Whenever my partner doesn’t need me, I sleep and I always hear it in my dreams. When I help him fight, I hear it playing as I use my power to take down his enemies. The only time I don’t hear it is when he talks to me, but that doesn’t happen very often, since it’s hard for me to talk back.
And in spite of everything, that song is still warm. Still comforting to me. Because when they sang lullabies, nothing hurt.
I love the lullaby. And I’m almost glad I don’t remember the words. If I did, I would lose that small bit of comfort from my past. Because I’m sure the words weren’t as tender as the melody. I’m sure that the words told what would happen to me.
They promised it wouldn’t hurt. That my soul would be well now. That it was all for the best. That I would live forever and serve It.
I don’t want to live forever. Living forever hurts more than death.
I remember begging. “Don’t make me live forever. Don’t make me. Let me go. Let me live like all the other girls, or let me die quickly, without pain. Don’t make me see more horrible people like you.”
They didn’t listen. They didn’t see the darkness building inside of me.
I used to think that I could find my way out of here if I tried. That I could fly up to Heaven and be at peace.
I’ve given up on that now. I know that I was never meant for Heaven or Hell or any sort of afterlife.
I was meant for something greater.
Not as a weapon to kill the enemies of the Entity. Nor as a savior for those who feared that cult. I did not kill the enemies of the Enemy. I did not kill the cult for those who feared it.
No. I was meant for him. I was meant to help him save the world, in spite of what they said. I have found a great purpose.
But sometimes, I still want to find my way there. I want to stop knowing all the pain of this earth. I want to stop having to worry about all of it. I want to stop remembering how it happened. How much it hurt.
They said it was my destiny. They said it was my only purpose, to serve It, to serve them. That I was born to be a sacrifice to our God.
That I should be honored to be chosen. That my heart is the most pure and perfect, the one to destroy our enemies and bring the God into this world, to purify and perfect this plane for It.
So they led me to the meeting, dressed in white. They lifted me to the platform. They tied me down. They told me to scream as much as I wanted, to call It into the world.
But then I remember him. I remember how much he needs me. How upset he was when he thought I’d left him. How much he cried when he learned who I was. How he even tried to kill himself when he learned what had happened to me.
And I could never leave him alone. He needs me too much, just like I need him. Before I had him, I spent too much time remembering. Too much time in pain.
Now, at least, I have other memories. Happy ones, with him. Memories of doing good like they said, but of my will, not for It. The new memories don’t erase the old ones, but they give me something else, at least. Something to fall back on when it becomes too much.
And I need the old ones. They’ve taught me a lot. They’ve made me a better partner for him. The tragedy of my life meant that I’d find him. I could never lose those memories.
Losing those memories would mean losing him and giving up the good we do.
They sang soothing chants as it happened. As I bled. As I burned. As I screamed and begged.
Their expressions did not change. The chanting did not stop. None of them cared for me.
That was when love turned to anger. And they always say anger leads to hate.
I hated them so much. And I knew what to do when they were done. They had said that I would be the weapon to kill their enemies. They didn’t realize that a weapon can kill anyone.
And through it all, I heard the strains of that lullaby. As though they wanted to comfort me and put me to sleep. But I knew better then. I knew they didn’t care about me. That lullaby was part of the ritual.
I was never anything more than a sacrifice.
One of the things about living like this is that I never grow up. I never get old, never have to worry about being a grown up in the real world. I’m always innocent in a lot of ways. I’ve never been kissed, never gone out for a late movie with my friends, never done any of the things I’m told are normal to teenaged girls.
I’m so much younger than Linkara. He’s a grown man, one who has experienced everything he’s supposed to know. He has seen a lot of the world. He knows a lot. And I know he thinks of me as a little girl, because that’s what I am on the outside. He will always think of me as a young sister, a partner. Someone to fight with him, but also someone he has to protect.
But in spite of looking and acting thirteen forever, I know I am so much older than that. I’ve seen too much. I’ve fought too many battles, both with him and alone. In my mind, I am much closer to an old woman than a teenager. Jaded. Weary. Experienced. I’m the one who has to protect him.
In my mind, I am far older than Linkara. He’s seen a lot, but not enough. He’s still strong and optimistic. He knows that bad things happen, but he still believes people are basically good. He still has the power to forgive people.
And he’s right. It took me a long time to admit it, but he is right. People are good. The world is good.
I just saw the bad part for most of my life without realizing it.
One of them laughed as the knife cut deep. I screamed louder, promising myself that he would be the first to fall.
I don’t remember actually dying. I remember pain. And blood. And then darkness for a long time as I tried to find Heaven. Frantic flailing until I woke to find myself trapped in a small object.
After that, all I remember is anger. There was light, and fire, and blood, but I don’t remember anything but my own rage and hate and sorrow.
I know why I didn’t work for them. For something to be a sacrifice, you have to miss it and not want to give it up.
They never loved me. They never regretted the purpose they had in mind for me.
My death was not a sacrifice. My death was murder.
I did not regret killing them. I did not care when they screamed and begged their dark god to save them. It wasn’t coming. All they had was me.
After living for a long time, I started to lose faith. I stopped believing in God and goodness and everything like that. I must have been on earth for thirty years, must have seen more than anyone should know.
I didn’t think there were any good people in the world. All the ones I knew were so cruel, to me, to others, to themselves. I saw parents beat their children, men take women again their wills, people steal from others, people kill themselves. I didn’t think that there was a single person good enough and pure enough for me.
Until I found him.