O Angel, ravish me in my youth!
Render me incapable of thought
And reduce me to the primal eldest joy,
For I am yours,
Until the day Christ calls.
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I suppose I always knew I was different; that my fate was set in stone, and that one day, I would sit on a cold, hard throne. A symbol of what I am. A deity of my kind.
A deity among many.
I was not conscious. I was running through the green grass, screaming her name in a tongue as familiar to me as the shadow that the tall grey-stone building cast in my path. Tears streaked my face and I struggled to climb the steps, hearing the babble behind the closed entrance doors, like the stream beside the lodge that would swell after the winter rains. My polished, square, school-approved heels squealed in protest as I burst through the double doors, coming across the same sight I had seen a thousand times: hundreds of faces turning to me and then blackness. I waited, breathless though asleep, for the scene to replay itself as it always had in the past.
But this time was different. Instead of waking up in a cold sweat, cheeks wet, bed soaked, I drifted into another scene. Now, a tall statue loomed in front of me and sunlight glinted off pale paving and the tumbling water in two identical fountains. Almost as though somebody had hit fast-forward, the scene sped up and I watched, captivated, as thousands