Spirit ~ An original story by Ethereal Willow
~Prologue~
Talent.
Most people have at least one. Some people can only use them as party
tricks, while others can use their talent to make money. I was the
latter. I first discovered my "Talent" when I was four. It was a
sculpture of my family I made from some clay I dug up in the stream.
When
my mother first saw it she thought I paid someone to make it and
wondered where I got the money. It wasn't until I showed her how I made
it until she finally believed I made it. Making it wasn't that hard, I
just had to mold the clay with my fingers until it looked like my family
right? After I was finished I just copied what my mother did when she
finished a clay pot and put it in the kiln.
What was surprising wasn't just
the fact that I had figured out how to use a kiln, but the resemblance. According to my mum it was
like looking into a mirror. The next week she had enrolled me in a
pottery class and I really disliked it.
As I grew up I
was forced to "nurture" my "talent" and I eventually started making money at
festivals. The money was nice but it got boring really quick. I started
getting in fights with my parents as all teenagers do and eventually
moved out.
Then "it" happened.
I
got a call that my father suddenly had a stroke. By the time I got to
the hospital he was already gone. I would be lying if I said I wasn't
sad, but I felt I got over it quicker than I should have. My mother
realized this way before I did and we got into another fight I got in my
car after having one drink to many and before I knew it I was in the
hospital. I couldn't move. My legs didn't respond. I had trouble
breathing. I couldn't feel my arms. They were still
attached, but the doctor said I wouldn't be able to use them like I used
to. I didn't care.
In fact in an odd way I was kinda
glad. Glad that I couldn't be forced to touch another piece of of that
goddamn clay. My mother came to the hospital as soon as she heard I was
awake. I may have fought with her quite a few times, but I still loved
her. To see her cry like that really got to me. Why couldn't I feel like
that.
Four years later I was diagnosed with chronic depression.
Another four years later my mom told me I had until I was thirty to find a job or she would kick me out on the street.
Two years later on my thirtieth birthday before my mother even woke up, I left.
I
walked north. I saw documentaries about how the body decays after death
and I didn't want that so I decided to walk north until I die.
I
lived in a small town in the us near the border to Canada so I didn't
have to walk far until it started to get cold. I would eat snow to stave
of the hunger. I don't know how far I got, but I was walking for at
least two and a half weeks before I finally decided to find a place to
die.
It was an abandoned graveyard. There weren't any
plots dug but I was able to find a very old looking but still incredibly pretty tree with a fox den dug out beneath its
roots. It looks like some kind of shrine was supposed to have been built inside. The
entrance was barely enough for me to enter. I curled up into a ball,
hugging a certain sculpture I made. For all the good it did me I never did
regret making that first sculpture.
I started to fall
asleep for what I assumed was the last time when I heard a loud boom. I
didn't care for what it was since I was going to die anyway so I just
kept drifting away. My last moments were strangely warm.
END OF PROLOGUE
~ TOC ~ NEXT CHAPTER ~
