Tied

I was in my thirteenth year when I heard a voice from God to help me govern my conduct. And the first time I was very much afraid.
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I am standing in the middle of a large field.

There are men dressed in armor beside and behind me. Hundreds, thousands, all with weapons raised and angled to the golden horizon. I follow their line of view. A few hundred feet away, more swords glint in the dawn, a wall of silver opposition. I am not afraid. Two women materialize to the right and left of my horse. “Sister,” they whisper, “you must do this now. Do it for God.” And with a nod of approval from them, I lift up my own sword, weight dragging me forwards, and advance to war.

I woke up sweating, feeling as if I had run a marathon. Every muscle ached, my right arm especially sore, and it groaned in protest as I lifted up the bed covers. Half an hour before six. I didn’t have to get up for another fifteen minutes. Despite my wishes, it didn’t take a genius to decide there would be no returning to sleep.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I cut on the shower, stripped, and stepped into the hot stream of water. It felt glorious on my skin. Standing in such a way as to relieve my aching arm, a bit of black in the corner of my eye caught my attention. Words. They were scrawled on my side, descending in a vertical line from beneath my chest to the hip. I was in my thirteenth year when I heard a voice from God to help me govern my conduct. And the first time I was very much afraid. Great. Carlos, my half-brother, just wasn’t going to leave me alone. What a stupid prank. Setting my jaw, I scrubbed at the black ink furiously.

It wouldn’t come off.

“Screw you.” I muttered. How had he even known that quote?

As if by thinking his name I had woken him, he pushed into the bathroom two minutes later. Had I not already been finished in the shower and dressed, the morning would have ended with blood. Even so, I screeched and threw the wet towel at him.

“Good morning to you too.” He yawned.

“What. Is. This.” I lift up my shirt just enough for him to see the words.

“What do you mean?” He rubbed his eyes, still groggy. “Did you get a tattoo? Dad is going to kill you.”

I groaned and slammed him, in the loving manner only siblings could manage, into the wall on my way out. Inspecting myself in the mirror of my bedroom (loose band shirt, colored skinny jeans, converse, freckles splattered across slightly tan skin, evidence of a mixed heritage) I attempted to achieve some order from my tangled dark hair and, as usual, failed. What a truly lovely day. I painted on some eyeliner and lipstick the same scarlet color as the blood of my enemies. Glancing at the words once again, I frowned. They seemed almost darker than before, and certainly very permanent.

“Rhea!” Carlos called. “Bus!”

I half ran, half jumped down the stairs, grabbing a pop-tart as I went. The horrid bus was indeed there. Sending glares to quite a few deserving passengers, I flung myself into an empty seat. Carlos followed, chatting amiably with the boys, strolling down the aisle as if he was on a pleasant walk among the gardens of a luxurious estate he himself owned. A sigh and roll of the eyes was my official morning greeting to the pompous lord.

I plugged in my earphones as the bus started rolling. Landscape drifted by, patches of emerald and cobalt and asphalt. The music quieted as a new song started, the rhythm beaten out only by drums, a repetitive and familiar sound echoing in my head. A field came into view as we slowed to a stop, tall grass spotted with wildflowers, and the beat quickened. The fog drifted among the trees beyond, forming silver shapes in the morning dew. Men, masked in armor, heads held high and hands grasping weapons, sunlight shadowing them in shades of red as blood dripped down from their chests and they charged towards me as the drums, eternal drums, beat ever faster-

The bus jerked back into motion, startling me into reality. The fog, simple morning mist, dissipated.