Her anxiety built slowly, a rising tide that filled her chest and tightened her breath.
Her heart raced, each beat louder and more insistent, resonating with her escalating dread.
Her gaze darted around, seeking an escape from reality.
Her grasp on reality wavered.
Her thoughts spun, each one fluttering away before she could grasp it.
Her understanding of the moment seemed to slip through her fingers.
Her mind became unable to keep the growing distress at bay.
Her surroundings, once familiar, now morphed into a claustrophobic prison, the walls closing in, the air thickening, as her sense of self slipped away.
Her reactions were delayed, disconnected from the most real reality unfolding before her - a harsh reality that she couldn’t escape.
…
Her clothes were torn, just like her mind.
Her cries were illusory, just like her escape.
Her well was penetrated, just like her reality.
…
Her pain intensified, overwhelming her senses and clouding her thoughts.
Her silent, unuttered plea for it to stop was desperate, lasting, yet unrestful.
Her sense of self felt fragmented, pieces of her identity shattering and scattering.
Her body tensed involuntarily, reacting to the unfamiliar and unwelcome sensations.
Her breathing became labored, and each inhale was an effort.
Her oppressor, discerning the despair in her eyes, grinned, his push becoming more forceful, his clench reinforced by his weight; perceiving the warmth, his greasy fingers began their warmful activity.
Her confusion worsened, her resentment heightened, her pain inflamed, and her despair deepened.
…
Her body submerged under the sea of desperation and weight, her lips pasted against sticky, smelly sacks.
Her will drowned under the sea, dissolving like herself.
Her energy was drained despite being continually filled by it.
Her confusion cleared, her resentment vacated, her pain unburdened, and her despair emptied.
Her mind was empty, filled with nothingness, as though she were nothing, as though there was nothing.
Her desperate attempts at protest had long halted, rendered futile by the mass of her repressor.
Her insides were torn, her chasm bled, and her vision blurred.
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“Mother! Please tell me one more story before you go to bed!”
Fatma pleaded, her eyes wide as she tugged at the hem of her mother's robe. Her mother, Yana Elma, lay beside her with a book in her hands.
“But it’s too late…”
“No buts! Today is my birthday! You promised when I turn seven, I’ll be allowed to sleep an hour later. Liar! You are a liar, mother!
To Fatma’s tantrum, Elma sighed, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. Her child was too energetic even for her age. Already half-asleep beside her, Elma cradled a storybook in her weary arms.
“But your father will have to sleep alone…”
She looked at Fatma’s gradually darkening face.
“Alright, alright… I’ll retell the brave fisherman.”
“No! Boring! You also promised that you’ll tell me the hero’s story when I turn seven. Everyone says that it’s the best story there is.”
Fatma’s already heightened voice only rose in power. Elma shook her head self-deprecatingly. Her eyes flickered with resignation.
“Fine…”
She murmured, smoothing her daughter’s hair back from her forehead. For this tale, no book was necessary; it was a story known by heart to everyone on the island.
…
Once upon a long, long, long time ago…
People lived in prosperity…
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Stars blessed every corner with warmth and watched over tranquil nights. Villages thrived, fields burgeoned with golden grains, and laughter filled the air like the sweetest of songs. Children played freely in the meadows, their parents happily watching over them.
But this age of serenity and peace did not last long.
From the darkest depths of the forgotten abyss, from the heart of hell, from the deepest shadows of the netherworld, the demon arose.
This demon, unlike any, was imperceptibly strong and cunning.
His sole goal was to destroy the world.
The overlord of all the demons.
The unfallen one.
The unbridled one.
The unrivaled one.
The one who beckoned destruction.
The Demon King.
Darker than the starless night, he brought forth an era of terror that blackened the heart of the land and dyed its surface with unceasing rivers of blood.
His armies swept through the villages like a plague, demolishing many heritages, cultures, and traditions. They left behind a trail of sundered destruction - homes burned to cinders, fields trampled and barren, and the air thick with the cries and perished sights of the innocent.
It seemed that all was lost. But when hope was at its lowest, on the verge of being begone, and people at their knees, all giving up without trying to resist, the hero sparkled their vain hearts with the glimmer of newly brought hope.
The specks of light he was brimming with lightened all the other torches - the people’s hearts, and together, they all stood against the ruthless Demon King once again.
The fight lasted for long, seemingly unceasing. The Demon King rampaged, ravaging an overwhelming number of people. Nobody stood a chance, and no one could withstand the ferocity and evil.
All but the hero. He alone stood, alone, he withstood. His ever-burning light was inextinguishable. As he lifted his sword, which carried the fire and the lives of his fallen comrades, he pierced through the Demon King.
The Demon King perished, and with him, all the evil was gone. All he left behind were the empty promises of his return.
Unfortunately, the hero, weakened by the Demon King, forever closed his eyes, lying on the mound of the corpses of his countless comrades.
After his death, the Goddess exclaimed.
“Oh, hero. Oh, hero. You have saved the people of this world. But how regretful, now that you are dead, they will forget about you.”
The hero, though, was not sad in the least. He smiled as he bowed to thank the Goddess for all the powers she had bestowed upon him.
“It is of no significance. I and my companions will always live in people’s minds. Our heroic tales will be retold from one to the other forevermore.”
…
Fatma gasped. She was both sad and happy for the hero. Sad for his death and happy for the fact that his prophecy remained true.
“He’s so cool!”
The girl proclaimed, eyes wide with awe and admiration.
“Not really. If you hear his full story, you’ll think the opposite.”
Elma, fighting off the weight of her fatigue, smiled wryly. She then yawned. She was way too tired in comparison to her curious daughter.
“How so?!”
Her daughter asked with piqued curiosity. Her brows furrowed, her interest deepening. The hero, flawed? So this was not the full story, only the summary? She wanted to know all the details.
“For another time.”
The mother stifled, settling against the bed.
“When I grow up, I want to be like the hero…”
The little girl mumbled, still engrossed in the simple yet epic saga.
“There is no Demon King left for you to slay.”
Her mother said jokingly, her voice soft but firm as she stifled a yawn and settled deeper into the bed's embrace. It seems she would have to spend her night here. She was just too tired to move elsewhere.
“No. He is not cool because he defeated the Demon King. When everybody gave up, the hero instilled hope in them. When everybody fell, the hero was still standing. Also, unlike the usual fairy tales, the story of the hero is real, right?”
“Who knows…”
Her mother absent-mindedly muttered while falling into slumber. There was a lot of work to do tomorrow, thus, she needed sleep.
Fatma, seeing her mother’s disinterest, slowly quieted. A few moments later, she fell asleep - way faster than her mother.
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She opened her eyes, her usual liveliness washed away from her face, replaced by… nothing.
Who was she? Fatma? She didn’t know. Was she someone to begin with?
No, she wasn’t.
She was a toy, a disposable one at that - divested of will, bereaved of voice, and deprived of the sense of self. Away from her relatives, away from her beloveds, on a different planet, in a different body, she was… cast aside by the world.
A name carries a reason only when it has a meaning. If there is no need for recognition, then there is, consequently, no need for a name. She was not only not recognized by others but also unrecognizable by her own self.
Who was she?
A product, a slave, a toy.
She smiled through excruciating pain, not a smile to suppress the sadness but a smile to fill the emptiness.
‘No…’
She tried to muster, yet apparently, she was mute. She had no ability to talk.
So, instead, she lifted her hand toward the ceiling. Tears traced down her blackened eyes.
‘I’m Fatma!’
She was reminded of the hero. Before, she simply admired the hero. But after knowing his full story, the hero became her role model.
The hero was a perfect protagonist.
It was not because of his selflessness or kindness, and certainly not due to his smarts, as the hero was stupid and dense. The hero was a loser. He lacked in many ways.
So what was the difference, exactly? Why was he the protagonist?
What is the difference between somebody like a hero whose name will be up till the end of times and a side character devoured by the passage of a generation, forgotten by the world?
It was the ability to stand up!
No matter how many times the hero fell, he would always get back on his feet. He fell yet immediately rose back. His losses were only feeding his strength.
The Demon King was unparalleled. He would never lose. He was indomitable. But how many of us can truly tread the path of life without faltering? We all fall despite our reluctance. In the end, even the Demon King himself fell.
The hero? Being just a human, he would suffer, cry, and regret. Yet, instead of learning to avoid the fall, he put all his effort into standing back up.
The Demon King who would never fall and the hero who always stood back.
One just stood at the pinnacle.
And the other never ceased to rise.
Thus, the pinnacle was breached.