100 Themes Writing Challenge
Her mother was having one of her good days. It was a Saturday, so Riya didn’t have to spend most of this one in school.
They were in the kitchen decorating the cookies they’d made—cliché as hell, but they didn’t have much else to do—when something was placed atop Riya’s head.
Raising one sugar-covered hand to feel what it was—trailing sugar through her hair—she found a sort of flower crown. She looked up at her mother questioningly.
“Thought you might like it,” was the only answer she got in response as the woman went back to decorating the cookie in front of her.
With a broad grin, Riya stood up on her chair and tugged on her mother’s arm until they were facing each other. She stood on her tiptoes to put her nose against Pamela’s as her smile grew. “Love you, Momma.”
“Love you, too, Riya darling.”
She couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips and let Clarice pull her into a tight hug.
She was ten years old, it was a warm Thursday afternoon, and her parents still cared about her. Or they pretended to, at least. This was before she started getting into trouble, so maybe they did still love her then.
They’re all at the park, with a basket of food and some drinks. They let her pick the spot—right underneath the biggest tree, smack-dab in the middle—and set up the picnic there.
They stayed there all afternoon, eating and playing and laughing until the sun started to set. Then she was swooped into her father’s arms and they walked back to the apartment.
She was smiling, even as a tear made its way down her cheek, and she shifted slightly on the couch—her gaze on the ceiling though she wasn’t really seeing it.
She was young. Her father’s village was nearly destroyed, and her fire was wrapped around her entire torso despite the ice-covered hands wrapped around her upper arms.
She couldn’t hear a word coming out of his mouth, or any of the screams or shouts coming from the others of the village. All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears, the fire roaring over small wooden houses and the way her father’s ice sizzled as it made contact with her skin.
Jerking free of his grip, she raised her arms slightly, gazing in a wonder that never faded at the striking oranges and reds and yellows wound around the pale lengths of her skin. It was a dangerous sort of beautiful, and if she was completely unaware of what was going on around her she would have stared all day. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself down.
She could feel the flames receding. When she felt them only around her wrists, she opened her eyes and carefully extinguished them. Looking around at the damage and the fires still going around, she murmured a quiet spell. The fire disappeared, leaving only the burnt shells of homes that were hopefully empty behind.
Biting her lower lip, tucking blonde hair behind one pointed ear, she looked up at her father through long lashes. “I’m sorry.”
Her fingers moved, perceptively warmer than usual but not bringing forth any fire. With a sigh, she strummed another cord on the guitar in her lap.
Thirteen. Konja’s standing in front of her, towering over her much smaller frame. He’s eighteen now; his muscles are bigger, more defined. He looks more intimidating than he had before.
“Leave me alone.” Her voice too quiet, lacking conviction. She’s too tired to fight with him now.
“Why should I?” Brown eyes staring down at her, his head cocking to the left. “There’s nothing stopping me from doing a thing now. No uniforms, no witnesses . . . it’s just you and me now, kid.”
A sigh. Tired eyes lifting to look at him. “You won’t come near me. You do and you’re not gonna walk away without something to remember me by.”
As if daring her to do something, he took several steps forward. He didn’t stop until there were only a few scant inches between them. “What you gonna do? Stab me with that dinky little knife’a yours?”
A few moments later he was leaving, a hand held to his side in an attempt to stop the blood. “You stupid bitch! Wait’ll I get my hands on you again!”
She couldn’t help the slight grin, left hand moving to grasp the hilt of her dagger in a sort of reassurance.
