A Mile From Gehanna's Gateway

Trembling gasps for air. Troubled eyes. Clammy Skins. Then the husky voice blurted 'Owen’. A long groan sailed out of Lyn’s mouth as she whammed her head against the propped pillows, the Midwife ranting orders to several Nurses at a time; words that barely made sense to her ears. Her heaving breaths filled the room as the events of her surroundings whizz past her eyes in distortions; Nurses on white dresses and gloves loitering the space, footsteps thumping against the floorboard, and hot air upsetting despite the open windows. Lyn shut her eyes and pressed the back of her head into the doubled pillows as tears made to her ears from the sides of her eyes. She felt the pain gorging below her belly, her chest tightening and her body feeling as if she was being consumed by fire. Yet, she could recall, despite her pain, that there were a million times when she thought it easy to become a mother. She was told the tasty words of motherhood’s sweetness, and though she had a few times

I cannot help but imagine that there are children with the privilege to attend lessons: those who at least have the honour to see daylight every single day, or do not have to live beneath a servant’s status in their Father’s homes. Then, there are also those who are treated as I am, but only a few—or none—receive the kind of hate my own Father gives me. Sometimes, I find myself wishing that I come from a poor home, and perhaps it would have been a sugary kind of story. Other times I wondered if my mother would treat me better if she were alive. I do not know her personally because she died right on the spot of delivery. All I know about her is her subtle beauty; her mixed silky hair, and her caramel skin that glowed with the gold she was arrayed in a portrait as she smiled happily into the lenses, posing with Lord Owen. “I do not want to get married,” I murmur as I stride back to the room while Lord Owen glances back at me and says nothing. My tap did not run; I never washed my han

Birds’ chirpings meet my ears along with winds whispering through the light, flowery curtains, a figure standing tall beside the king-sized bed. I turn to my side to behold the redhead who has a facial appearance that is quite far from normal. I do not know how he knows that I am awake and thinking of the old man all these while. He may have missed the part where the only detail I know about Xaulfur is his half-Asian, half-Australian insane nature, and this person by my side does not look Asian at all. “You are Xaulfur?” I ask while sitting up, my head tilting to check if I can see the rest of the man speaking to me, albeit he moves back to give me a better view; strong hands dipped into the pockets of his dark pair of pants, broad chests snatching a white top and legs lost in matching boots. He looks like a great catch amongst women, especially with the fact that the sides of his shoulder-length hair has a number of tiny zig zag braids that complements the look of his dreamy eyes.