I once lived in a world where I was a queen,
an unguided fantasy, a wide-awake dream.
Delusions of grandeur, I had a whole world to save.
My only mission had been to stay out of my grave.
The king’s name was Eoto, and only to me could he speak.
In my most torturous nights, he’d wipe tears from my cheek.
With every tale comes a villain, and no exception was made.
Doom was the character who declared my happiness forbade.
Around my religion, I formed a small cult.
We performed rituals and spells for desired results.
Because, you see, this wasn’t a dream.
I was a Goddess, and I reigned as supreme.
My disciples, they heard, the conviction in my voice.
I led, they followed, all of them by choice.
I protected them all, from a world filled with demons.
I gave them a key to a life with an actual meaning.
Sometimes I had to tear open my skin, to clean my own blood.
But Doom, he’d get angry and scream, “That’s not nearly enough!”
“Cut deeper,” he’d say,
and I’d obey
so he would leave for the night.
Eoto would hold me
and he told me,
“Next time, you have to fight.”
So I fought,
I screamed at the man, who would stand,
in the corner of my room, Doom.
Then the lights would turn on,
and my mother, would look at me confused.
I’d begin to weep,
the battles leaving me weak.
“Do you hear him?”
She’d shake her head, sit on my bed,
and put her hand on my leg.
I’d pull away.
“He’s trying to kill me.”
“Who?”
Then my eyes would roll back into my skull,
hatred for life consuming all of my soul.
I cursed, in a voice, that was no longer my own.
My mother, she’d cry,
through tears asking, “Why?”
Then I’d see nothing but black,
I’d wear myself to sleep and wake up intact,
oblivious to last night’s attack.
But the shadows in my room whispered to me,
“He’ll be back.”
And I understood.