naragr999 Nara Garcia

Not everyone lives the way you think. There are people who are stuck in stagnation. People who follow religions and customs that are thousands of years old. And who would do anything not to see their own reputation tarnished.


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#english #snow #fairy-tale #minerva
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minerva

It was a winter's day when it all began. Outside the storm that had formed was leaving the whole town buried under the whitish snow and the air whipping the surrounding trees. Branches were falling every second leaving the streets isolated from others without any escape, but in the midst of all that disaster could be distinguished some screams.

Not even the air could suffocate those screams of agony coming from the biggest house in town. Inside that house, the only thing that could be heard were the waiting footsteps of a man and the howls of pain of a woman. Of a woman in labor.

In that small room a young girl with emerald eyes was lying on the bed. Her halo-like blonde hair spread across the pillow as she screamed incessantly. Her sweet face was contorted in pain and beads of sweat trickled down her long, slender neck to the mattress or trailed down to her breasts which were covered with a nightgown of the whitest color imaginable, but the underside was stained with the scarlet color of blood.

Suddenly that image was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Out of it stepped a stocky man dressed in a loose linen shirt and black pants fastened by a brown leather belt. The man walked over to the young woman who was lying on the bed. He looked at her as if he didn't care. As if she was just another whore to deal with in this difficult time.

"When are you going to stop making a fuss?"

He said in his deep, cold voice like the snow that was falling furiously outside the house. The young woman did not answer, she just stared at him without recognizing him. That man who always spoke to her with his deep voice, but soft and sweet at the same time. As if with his tone of voice he could break her into a thousand pieces, but those were only memories. For months he had been treating her as if she were not a person with feelings.

Her memories dissipated because of the pain that emanated from her body. And the silence was broken by another guttural scream coming from the young woman's entrails. After a few minutes the young woman stopped screaming, but the screams were exchanged for cries that were more distinguishable from the storm outside. The man went to the source of the cries and found among the sheets a small creature that moved its arms and legs to the rhythm of its cry. It was covered with blood and was still attached to the young mother with the umbilical cord.

The man pulled from his belt a dagger large enough to cut him. As he did so he wrapped the little girl in a sheet and walked over to the couch. With one hand he grabbed the sofa cushions and arranged them to simulate a bed. When he was ready, he put the little girl on the bed and at that moment she stopped crying.

The young woman observed all the movements of the man in silence, but that silence did not last long. The young girl, who no longer had any strength left, began to experience that pain again, which caused her to cry out and cut through the roar of the blizzard outside. The man waited sitting next to the little girl who was not sitting still, moving her little legs and closing and opening her small hands with force. He watched her as if she were a gift from the gods and as he searched for a name for the little one, but was interrupted by the cries of another creature.

He got up as quickly as possible and approached the bed where there was another child. This one's cry was louder than the other, but that was not the only thing that differentiated them. That child had a large clump of platinum blonde hair like her mother's. The man did the same ritual as with her mother. The man did the same ritual as with the other girl. When he left the little girl next to her sister, he went to the young girl,

The young woman, eager to hold her daughters in her arms for the first time, looked at the man. His face was disfigured by rage and in his right hand he held the dagger that was dirty with blood. The young woman began to panic and did not understand what was happening.

"Why won't you let me take them," the man did not answer her and was getting closer and closer, "Why won't you let me take them!

"You don't deserve them."

The young woman knew what that meant so she got up from the small bed and tried to get to the nearest door, but the man was faster and caught her with his muscular arms. He covered the young woman's mouth to stop her from screaming and with a quick flick of his wrist he slid the sharp dagger across her thin neck, letting the blood gush out. He pushed her convulsive body against the wall leaving the entire wall splattered with the girl's blood. She fell to the floor with a thud. With that sound one of the girls began to cry and with it the other.

The man stopped looking at the young girl who had once been his daughter and walked over to the little girls. He carried one in each arm and within a minute they were quiet. He sat on the sofa looking at his little granddaughters, looking for a name for them. She knew right away and held them a little longer.

Looking at the little ones he said.

"Britannia and Galia, I hope you don't turn out like your mother. I hope you will be pure and that I will finally be proud of someone."

The little girls fell asleep in their grandfather's arms and he could only watch as his only daughter bled to death on the floor. There was no more life in her eyes. He left the girls again on the makeshift bed and approached the body. He knelt down in front of it and looked at the last remaining member of his little family. He began to stroke her blond hair stained with his own blood.

"You know I had to do it, my little Minerva."

3 Octobre 2021 17:11:18 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
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A propos de l’auteur

Nara Garcia 22 / escribir es mi túnel de escape / mañana será otro día, o eso dicen // no voy a presentarme como los demás, por que sé que si lo hago será tan aburrido que nadie se parará a leerlo.

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