Remnant of the Serene Days

Cold.

Even as the rays of sun rake my bare arm.

Cold.

My inflamed pores squeeze out chubby beads of sweat on my damp clothes. They trickle down and die once they come in contact with the scorching sand of the desert.

I don't belong in this infinite sea of faded gold. I have been dumped here hours ago, maybe days even. Time is such a useless resource when your system whines for shade and alkaline liquid. And then, my senses blaze into life when my eyes fall upon it. In the distance I see it— a glimmer of rich colors spread upon a soft fabric defying the stale hues of the desert. "That shouldn't be there," I muse.

I am an outcast, a young girl exiled from the village for a crime that I denied till the end. A crime that I was guilty of. Regret hangs loose around my neck, barely suffocating me as I wade through this barren wasteland. The coat that I stole belonged to my grandfather. It was on the floor nestled among all the goods seized when my village was conquered two years ago. The chief never wore it. The coat laid on the dust as a memento. A constant reminder that woods, bricks, and lives could twirl into ashes by one word of his mouth.

Was I fed? Certainly. Did the chief mistreat me after my capture? Never. He even freed me. Did he shun me? No, he gave me a permanent place in his home as his gardener when he noticed my talent. And even more bizarre, nothing was asked of me in return. I had my own room, received monthly coins for my gardening work, and was addresses by a soft tone by the chief, all the while my freedom was not threatened and my virtue remained intact. According to the servants, I had a striking resemblance with the chief's daughter who died years ago. Judging by the tender and almost possessive gaze that he would lay upon me, I figured that there were some truths to these hearsays. Despite the favors that I received, my mind always traveled to the same place at night, right before sleep would come. Everytime, I would hear the sound of shattering glass, the crackling of burning timber, and the deafening screams of voices that were familiar to me. I would open my eyes and my vision would be invaded by tall flames licking greedily at the wooden structures of our houses. And always, the metallic tang of drying blood tangled with the acrid smell of the smoke would follow me. It was as if I was being reminded that no balm of pity could conceal wounds chiseled by cruelty. Nevertheless, murmurs would boil among the villagers regarding the kindness that was shown to me. Some saw me as an enchantress and others as a concubine. I reckoned it was hard for them to see a foreigner strut inside the chief's yard while hunger gnawed at the insides of many natives.

Therefore, it was no surprise that neither compassion nor forgiveness was an option during my trial. Two villagers witnessed my shaky hands setting fire to the coat when the theft was discovered and they were eager to report it. Death penalty was the reaping of any theft against an authority figure but the chief couldn't bear to see me being killed by the hands of his people. Without further arguments, I was transported on the back of weary camels and dumped in the midst of the vast emptiness.

And now, I stare at the purple coat, resplendent with golden threads, hanging suspended in the air, defying the basic laws of nature. My heart surges with desperate longing as I stumble towards the sight, my pace quickening with renewed energy.

The coat seems to glow with every step, the golden threads shimmering like rays of sunlight. Suddenly, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine fill the air, their sweet fragrance unspoiled amidst the dry desert winds. It is as if the coat itself was on a divine mission to save me from my plight.

With trembling hands, I reach out to touch the coat, my fingertips brushing against the soft fabric. A surge of warmth courses through my body, momentarily soothing the coldness that started to overthrow me. I close my eyes, savoring the fleeting respite, my mind blissfully ignoring the sadistic truth that lays beneath the illusion. A flood of memories rushes forth dragging me back to two years ago, when life flowed unburdened by the threats of war. My home village, still hidden by rolling green hills, smells like the cinnamon bread my grandmother baked before every town meeting. The houses, with their thatched roofs, stand to the side of the weathered streets that carried the weight of generations before me. Men and women have calloused hands and the same tired smile as they toil the soil to summon life. Clearer than everything is the face of my late grandfather etched with deep lines carved by the years and the wisdom that accompany them. Against the verdant backdrop, he stands taller than I ever saw him, his usual hunch fading into a questionable memory. The regal purple coat that he only wore to town meetings sits evenly on his broad shoulders and the golden threads at its extremities flow wildly with the wind. 

As I open my eyes, the coat slowly vanishes leaving me grasping at empty air. The reality of my desolate situation crashes upon me like a stray wave. The winds howl, mocking the heartfelt tears that seep out of my parched body. 

I collapse onto the burning sand.

As I become one with the sands through its forced embrace, my mind finds relief holding on to the piece of beauty that fought its way to my barren prison. Before my last vital force ebb away, I pray to Anyone who cares to listen that there is a place where peace burns longer than fleeting illusions.