Following Light

'They give off a beautiful light that bathes us all in a glorious glowing embrace. We stand idly by and watch them, if only to catch a fleeting glimpse of their face as they talk to their friends or walk away from where we idly exist, decaying moths flittering around their iridescent glow.' Mina Carsanova glows much brighter than the others, the Passed following her as a child follows its mother. When tragedy happens, it would appear that some lights are far too powerful to ever be snuffed out. A story about death, life and a goodness that is all too hard to find.


2. A Forced Fate

I have been following Wilhelmina Carsanova since childhood. There is truly no purer innocence in life than children, regardless of their parentage. It is only when their soul evolves to comprehend the true nature of humanity that they are opened to corruption. There are exceptions of course, though Wilhelmina is not one. A blessed girl whose opportunities allowed the luminescent soul within her to blossom to its full potential. A beacon of light in the dark sea that traps the youthful peers of her generation.

I imagine that when people think of the Passed they expect us to be like the demons that trawl through their world. We are unlike that spawn, entities who exist on the same plane as the living whilst the Passed float amongst the veil separating the living from the light beyond. We remain clustered on the veil, marionettes to the humans we follow although they are unaware of the strings they pull without intention. As such, though we are close enough to watch in awe we are trapped by our inability to interfere. There will be few days where I will regret this cosmic trap as much as I do now.

Her shoulders are hunched against the biting chill that throws itself in snowy gales down the poorly lit street. The lamps drip golden light to the waxen blanket of snow on the floor, the grey flaws in its appearance farther marred by the garish lighting. Her homemade knitted scarf is battered violently on the wind behind her, a ribbon of red attempting to tear itself away from her neck. Her phone vibrates suddenly in her pocket, a wind chilled hand reaching in to view the screen. Her mother’s name flashes onto the screen as she swipes across to answer the beckoning and shrill ringing.

“Mum?” She asks.

A muffled murmur emanates from the phone, a low rumble that ensnares her concentration and engulfs the crunching of snow as footsteps trace her every moment across the street. Her eyes flicker from the phone to the road sign with a questioning look.

“I’m at Martins Street. I should be, like what, ten, maybe fifteen minutes?” She breathes, her breath frosting on the air.

Another incomprehensible response.

“Sure, mum. Love you too, see you in a minute. Okay, bye, love you!” She laughs, hanging up the phone.

Without the conversation, the road is filled only with the silence of the night and the sound of her own footsteps. She believes herself to be alone. The silence rings with the sound of the screaming of the Passed, our mouths tearing at the seams as we forget our invisibility, our utter lack of use. She cannot hear us. You can see the paranoia in her eyes, the all too familiar sight of fear that sits at the back of every woman’s eyes. The deep seated fear of vulnerability that is only amplified by the darkness. Oh, but for her to know how right she is.

Luscious forestry lines the corner of the street. Beaten tracks of an all too familiar location, the playground of her childhood. The darkened shroud replaces the nostalgia with the acidic taste of fear, the hairs rising as she turns away and speeds up her steps. Regardless of the paths that would shorten her journey, she has no desire to tempt fate. Fate has other plans.

It wraps its malicious gloved hand across her mouth, the chemically diseased cloth robbing her of her consciousness. A fallen child of the living. The undesired destruction of the innocent. A doll of the Fates.

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