Incandescent Land

An angry girl of a lost world has only one purpose left. Destroy.

Photo by Adonyi Gábor

tw: gore, grief

The forgotten skies sizzle away. Ashes rage up into the heavens on the wind of a thousand city-sized bonfires. The mother wails her final breath as the givers wait amidst the flame. The givers, the death-takers, the reapers of the land are silent, the only kindness they shall give. This is their reckoning, after all.

Hidden amongst the wreckage is a girl who stands against all odds. Her body dances with the infinite flames, her hair one with the blaze, and eyes so dark they pierce with inverted light. Her pupils are the only shadow in this incandescent land. She clenches her fists, then releases them, only to close them again.

The hunt has begun.

The givers believe that they have destroyed all of their foes. They shift awkwardly on their feet as if to say “what a shame,” like they didn’t orchestrate it.

The girl, the redeemer, the last believer, stalks through broken stone, burns mark where the couch, the kitchen table, and the family were incinerated. The people’s shapes charred into the acrid ground like a child outlining their sibling with chalk. Two small burnt marks lie next to two larger ones. She steps through the carnage and sheds no tears because nothing but flame can exist in this hell.

She bears no weapon. She bears no faith, no hope, no dreams. She carries one single purpose.

Destroy.

What could she do that hadn’t already been done? Nothing remains of her world of color and shadows, of wet and cold, of love and comfort.

Nothing but them and her.

She hears them talking about dinner and women, like they belong on the same plate, and she holds back a scream. Maybe she should have been curious about them, these destroyers of worlds, but she found no solace in that. Who could understand someone so wicked? Who would want to?

The mother screeches in broken howls, and the Redeemer grinds her teeth.

Vengeance remains the only option.

She bursts through rubble, chips of rock dig into her skin and drip crimson onto the molten streets. She grabs a giver and smashes their face into the ground with the force of a hundred arms. The death-taker’s suit shatters and the screams of the man are gobbled up by the wails of the mother. The givers cry out, their voices discordant, and pull guns on her. She grabs the next one and yanks their arm off. Blood sizzles in an arc on the pavement. The reaper falls to the ground crying and holding their wound. She kicks him and sends him sprawling before stomping his head in. Crunch.

A bang sounds, the gun’s metal warping in the heat, and misfires. The death-takers hand explodes with a cry and a smirk from the girl. She takes the globby gun and slams it into the giver’s face.

The others speak to her, but all she hears is her rage. Despite the language barrier, she understands surrender. They bow their heads, defeat seeping off them like the smoke from the broken homes.

She kicks one in the stomach, sending them through a wall. The half-hanging ceiling collapses on top of the reaper. The next greets her knee with their face.

The last one backs away, their hands up in the air.

“Please no,” it says. “I can give you anything you want. Money, people, places, whatever you desire.”

She cocks her head, recognizing the fallen language. She takes a step forward, and it backs up. She isn’t afraid that it will get away. She is afraid it won’t understand.

“I. Want. My. Home.”

Four simple words, yet the death-taker burbles like a baby trying to find a response. She reaches for its neck as it screeches out in some desperate plea. Yet the Mother saved her for this purpose. Not healing, not saving, not fixing. But redeeming.

Through blood.

Crimson splatters her face, a pop and a thump, and iron bites her tongue. She spits it out, and it evaporates instantly. She looks around at the carnage. The blood and bodies are nothing compared to the end of a world.

She stares up at the heavens and sees nothing but ash. Embers float off of her fingers, glowing softly and moving up her arm. Her skin flakes off like paper and her tan skin turns to gray. Her hair shortens, still dancing in the light. She reaches a half-eaten arm towards the sky. What she couldn’t save. There had been nothing to save.

Only blood to shed.

She blinks away a tear as she combusts into flame.

I wrote this piece when I was feeling particularly angry. Perhaps that comes through. This story may seem a bit hopeless, but I don’t feel that the world we live in is doomed. We are in a dark place, but I have to believe we will overcome it as long as we fight. We wont let the death-takers win.