.:Visual Nightmare:.

Mother gazed at me through long white lashes, telling the story of my birth, re-establishing the fear so that it was fresh in my mind again. She mimed the event, eyes filled with the horror, as she recalled the actions that followed her giving birth to me. How she took me to a shack in the woods and raised me to live away from the other peasants and priests in the town. I was the daughter of a rape, my mother frowned upon by everyone, her said to be unfaithful to her husband with me being the evidence. She explained how harsh the world was, how they would have killed us immediately. No one knew I existed, my mother having to flee the town as soon as she knew I was inside of her. She and I were lucky enough to survive the birth, unlike many others Mother had known. She pulled me into an embrace, kissing the top of my head, dressed in an over-sized night gown. She ended the story with a warning, like always, "Never enter the town again; they will hurt you for being different, disabled, deformed."

Scorching white pain erupted in my left ear, as the sharp dagger tore through the flesh, pulling me back to the present and away from my memories. The sticky liquid traveled down my face, the hot and wet droplets leaving a dark red trail. The once white blouse clothing my too skinny body was now covered in red and brown stains, the long brown skirt ripped beyond repair and my corset missing. My mother had tried so hard to hide me; 15 years today to be exact. Mother promised me that today would be the day I could leave the safety of the home, to travel wherever I liked. Finally able to escape the secret nightmare I call my life. But here I knelt, dirt covering every inch of my body, face bloody and beaten and ribs jutting out more than normal. My ears were lying on the ground before me.

Stars twinkled in the cloudless sky above, the full moon clear and bright. A cool breeze danced along my exposed skin, raising the hairs on my fleshless, pale arms. I could smell the freshly damp, rich soil beneath me, the oil in the lanterns, the rusty tang of freshly spilled blood. I brought my grubby hands to either side of my head, timidly feeling the jagged protrusions of skin from the haphazard knife slices. Crusted blood matted my long white-blonde hair, and tears flowed freely from my crystal blue eyes, as they darted around to take in the faces of the people who had gathered. Hatred, anger, disgust... All portrayed similar things. Why did they hate me so much? Mouths moved, people lunged, face contorted. "Kill the demon," a women in the crowd called, my skill of lip reading proving to be useful, yet providing damaging news.

Another shouted, "The girl is possessed." I felt like screaming to them that I wasn't a demon, to accept me for whom I was, but I knew my efforts would be futile and ignored. They didn't care about my thoughts; their sadistic and evil minds were set on the lies. If only they could understand the truth, that I was just a young woman who regularly sews and bakes, gardens and cleans, weaves and dances. Would they still want to kill me?

Yes, they would. I was a hidden abomination; born from a rape with what my mother called a 'difference from the others'. The world around me stayed mute, the reason why my ears were painfully removed. I've never heard my own voice, the sound of my mother's or even the birds. I've always known I was different, as did Mother; I thought it was fine to be unlike the others. But the towns' folk thought otherwise. Why couldn't God have created the world so everyone was like me, make them all experience the world with only light and dark, but no highs and lows of pitch? My mother had taught me to communicate with visual actions, hand signals and body movement. We mouthed words too. Sometimes, when I got angry or happy my throat would vibrate. I never knew what it was, what it did, why we did it. It was a strange, foreign reaction of ours that I could never understand.

As a child, Mother used to mouth words all the time, but too fast and too many for me to register. I remember the look on her face when she had realized I couldn't understand her. Her lip trembled, eyes watered and brows clenched, as she fell to the floor and prayed to God. After that, her warning became more frequent. I figured that I must have been very different from everyone else that Mother had ever known. But after having not met anyone other than my mother before, I didn't know what normal should have been.

The sudden movement of people caught my eye, causing me to gaze curiously at the pathway the mob created. Two workers of the priests appeared from the crowd, walking backwards and dragging a lifeless body. They stopped in front of a large metal pole standing tall 10 meters in front of me. Planks of wood lined the bottom of the pole, almost as if ready to be set alight, splattered with a foreign liquid. The workers shaded the body from public view, as it was limply tied to the pole.

I held my face in my hands, the pain from my ears becoming almost too much to bear, but mind and body still conscious. If they were going to kill me, I would put up a fight before they could commit the deed, Mother had taught me that much. I felt someone bend down beside me. Suddenly, my head was yanked up by my hair, forcing my eyes towards the pole. My heart sunk. This couldn't be happening. No!

Leaping up, I tried to run to my mother. Her confused gaze landed on me for a split second, lip split and skull bleeding, before her head lolled back to her chest. The person ripping my hair pulled me back, their foot squashing my ear on the ground, now long forgotten. My attention was purely focused on what they would do to Mother. "Mother!" I screamed, my throat vibrating and lips forming the words. Her head flicked back up, seeming more alert, as recognition finally dawned upon her face.

"Jacquelyn," she mouthed back. "I love you." Frantically, I tried to free myself from the iron grip, but it was too late. A burning lantern was thrown onto the wood, shattering on impact, a flame immediately rising high. The bright orange contrasted against Mother's pale, almost sickly blue skin and hair matching mine. Flames greedily licked Mother's feet like hissing snakes, her face a mask of horror and pain, thrashing as if it would help her escape. Men, women and even children watched on, excited and encouraging the torture.

"Burn the witch!"

"Kill them both!"

"Satanists."

The flames rose higher and higher, as if feeding off the hatred, until I could no longer see the expressions on Mother's face, tinged with black. I was snatched backwards, too shocked to retaliate. My mother, my guardian, the only person I have even known, dying. Burning before my very eyes. A cool metallic object was placed against my throat, pressed firmly against my wind pipe, making it harder to breathe. When I was a child, I thought my nightmare would be never leaving the house. Finally, it clicked that this was the nightmare, yesterday a heaven in comparison.

I didn't struggle against the blade, didn't attempt to escape. I wanted to embrace this, wanted to be with my mother once again. Today would be the day my nightmare ended. Today would be the day I could be myself again.