Demons are tearing me apart, and fate is demanding its due.
Angels and demons have fused into one, all of them demanding more,
and I’m standing here as if at an exam,
and it is eating me alive from the inside.
I try to soften the stream,
because my power already scares people.
If I turn it up
or stop holding it back completely —
I don’t know what might happen.
An ancient fear sits in me like a splinter,
destroying me slowly,
water wearing it down drop by drop like a blade.
If you don’t do everything “right,”
that blade will turn against you.
And I run.
I run the way I always do.
Because I hate confrontations,
I hate conflict.
The energy of conflict is tight, sticky, filthy —
it humiliates me,
forces me to rub up against human stupidity and naïveté.
It’s tight like glue,
and hundreds of fools laugh,
not understanding the depth of their own dirty, twisted, feral thoughts.
The degree of people’s zombification
and the depth of their unconscious sleep
make them cruel.
And I run from them to save myself.
But the gods demand writing.
They say I must write.
I don’t like conflict,
and I don’t know how long I can keep running from it.
They say loneliness finds every great master…
or maybe that’s just another script.
And the devil hits me in the face again.
The way he and his little minions always can.
And my spirits stand nearby — merciless — not interfering.
“Until you crack open, you’re not going anywhere.”
I hate it.
I am not your puppet.
I’m not my mission.
But I know what they want.
They want me to continue.
They insist I was born to change the system for children.
To change education.
And yes, I see beauty in that —
but in a healthy environment,
where I can do it with love and peace,
without burning myself down for the sake of some mission.
But the spirits aren’t satisfied.
They want more.
They want manic devotion:
Nazokat must not exist —
only the mission.
“Don’t look around.
Don’t get distracted.
Only the goal.”
And what about me?
I feel like a doll.
The devil hits me in the face,
blood splashing.
“Idiot. No one cares what you think.
You must do what was planted in you.
You must burn and die for it.”
But I love Nate.
And I love my people.
And I want peace.
But it’s not enough for them.
They laugh:
“Who do you think you are, girl?
Nate is just another toy.
Don’t finish your mission —
and you won’t have him.
And who knows what might happen to him anyway.”
And I cry.
Cry like a little girl who just wants to go home.
But they don’t care.
They’re merciless.
They demand what they demand.
The devil hits again.
My body is already torn.
And then Nate appears beside me,
and Jonathan,
and Cody, and Josh,
and Sophie, and Evie —
everyone I love.
All here.
A bunch of terrified kids,
but happy in our stubbornness.
And the devil is furious,
trying to strike each of them down.
And it makes me laugh —
because I am unbeatable.
I have a family.
Fear dissolves.
Clouds part.
I’m no longer afraid of my own strength.
The power and force that live inside a man
can paralyze a woman with fear —
because his power could turn against her.
But it’s not true.
It’s just fear.
And the devil thrashes, enraged.
Hits again, blood everywhere —
and Nate stands next to me.
He doesn’t interfere.
This is my war.
He does exactly what he must:
he stands with me.
The devil rages.
Strikes again.
And I laugh.
It’s funny.
“You stupid bastard,” I tell him.
“What, your balls can’t handle anything anymore?”
My people laugh with me.
We fly wherever we want —
free and happy.
Pain doesn’t matter anymore.
Strength doesn’t matter.
Chains don’t exist.
And the devil can’t reach me now.
He grabs me by the hair
and slams my head against a table —
the way my mother did
when I was very small.
I wipe my tears,
protect my little girl inside me,
and hand her to Nate, to Jonathan, to Cody and Josh.
I know Sophie will brew her tea
and Evie will bake something warm.
The devil freezes.
The rules just changed.
“Come on then, bastard.
I’m ready.”
He lashes at me with fire,
my skin hissing —
and I just smirk.
“You’ll have to come up with something new.
You can’t break me physically anymore.
And honestly?
It’s boring already —
you just keep hitting and hitting.”
He shrinks.
Becomes tiny.
Turns into a newborn.
I know who it is.
My brother.
The child sparks pity —
but Nate takes my hand and pulls me away.
We all know:
it’s a mask.
A game.
The cycle ends — God knows how.
And the irony is that only God does know how.
If He even exists.
I wipe the blood.
Nate kisses me.
Covers me.
If it’s true that your own will never abandon you —
then maybe you just have to believe.
Sometimes it feels strange, absurd.
On a planet of nine billion,
there are only seven who are mine.
Well then.
Let me think of myself as a rare creature.