(Perspective of "Ira")
Stone-gray cross-shaped monoliths jutted out from the ground, vines and roots pulling away from its skin. Its skin cracked and eroded. Vines crepitated, holding the metamorphic ability to hiss and stare. My shoes entangled in vines and roots. And beyond the graves of crosses of the dead and past, there was a stage. It wasn't grand but wooden and rotting. Woodlice crawled out from its crevices. Woodpeckers reached out their tongues through the cracks, pecking away at it in hopes of a good meal. Vines crawled out of the cracks. The holes were enveloped by gray webs. I would run my hand against the stage. It felt old and rough, coarse with dried blood. And I saw a woman, her skin riddled with bites and abrasion wounds. Flies buzzed around the pale body, her skin now tender and aged, yet tough at the same time. Her mouth agape. Wooden horns protruded from where her eyes were meant to be, a deep black flame accompanying them. A tight noose around her neck, charred and black, much as her skin. Pale yet black. And it would rain. Droplets slid down from her eyelids into her mouth.
Why?
Why is an innocent woman who cared for and cherished her community dead?
Why is the woman who raised me like an older sister hanged upon a noose?
She wasn't blood. But love doesn't ask for blood.She wasn't my sister. But she could've been. She would've been.
She'd once sewn shut an open wound on my cut with trembling hands, she hated blood.Called me brave even while I cried.
Was her death peaceful?
What did she think about?
Was she scared?
Was she lonely?
Birds began to chirp their lonely melodies, the dilapidated trees looming ahead. Leaves fluttered haphazardly against the wind, crunching, susurrus.
I unclenched my hand. Four marks driven deep into the center of it, bleeding out.
Did her heart bleed out to anyone?
Did she cry for help? Did she cry for my help?
I felt an unrelenting rage, yet there was a dullness beneath my eyes, layered upon my own pain.
Those people beat her, hung her, ate her, spat on her skin, then burned her.
I believed the world was run by justice. Yet there was no justice.
I believed it was run by power. But my power did not save her.
I believed it was run by a higher power. But it was not there.
I learned it was run by violence. The unending cycle of it. And therefore, I will be the judge and the executioner. The dealer of violence to end all violence. The ultimate force of unrelenting justice and power, through unrelenting violence. The double dealer.