Gazing outside the window, admiring the view—I reflect.
I never really had the time to think—after all—at the end of the day, I was too busy surviving—providing for my sisters.
How could someone like me even have such right—when all I ever learned was to get by?
Do I even deserve any of this?—Oh Didi, I wish you were here, but she deserves better than that.
How could I ever disappoint you more than I already have?
I miss sniffing Tara’s hair as she sits on my lap, trying her best to leave.
Nirmala—you were already of marriageable age—yet still not married, prioritizing Usha—too scared to even leave us behind.
Usha, you were too much—even for me—too strong and too caring.
How can I ever give away someone I held as a baby?
Didi—how has it come to this?
My face probably contorted in contempt—all I ever did—were they all excuses?
My thoughts are interrupted as the vehicle stops. I know what happens—but all I remember is a blur.
The vehicle stops—I hear the breath of a hundred men—I feel it; the mana in the air is manipulated like limbs.
Revenge for those I killed—maybe a political figure wanting to send a message—what do I know?—after all, I am an untouchable.
They use their mana—magic—I never really learned any. How can I even access just the most basic knowledge that even a child would know?
From this feeling of listlessness, it turns to envy—then to rage.
Rage consumes me—then it calms—leaving no bodies behind.
Just blood.
After all, I am still a god.
I check the front of the vehicle. The driver of the vehicle—passed out. It seems I will be behind one day.
All I know is raw power—mana, not magic—so close yet so far.
I enter the vehicle, waiting for the man to wake as I am left to my thoughts—again.
This silence makes me ponder. Who will I meet? Are they as different as people say they are? Different features from me—lighter skin to the darkest shade, narrow eyes, eyes with the same color as the sky, hair coily.
But all of us are all the same gods in the eyes of mortals.
Only one sacrifice chosen—they would probably be in better condition—luckier in birth, yet ill-fated—just like me.
I am a willing participant resigned to my death—living is just so tiring.
No one wants to die early—yet I am willing to walk to my death. The recognition and the glory is probably enough to curb the enthusiasm of those behind the wall of that palace.
Quite funny that I will probably be the only one enthusiastic enough to commit sacrifice.
There is no difference between that system and this. None.
I am walking towards death—but of a more kinder one, less gruesome than the one I left behind.
Was everything I did an excuse to end it all?—I myself don’t even know.
Next year is the year I turn twenty—waiting for that day to arrive is too taxing for me.
After all death awaits us all—mine is just faster.
I wait. I soothe. I slumber.
