The Palace of Memories

It was that look, always the same look that startled the sleeping girl into wakefulness. The look that flowed with shock, sadness, hatred and pain... A turmoil of passion and despite that are ought not to exist together but were giving birth to each other in that woman’s stare, rooted into the sleeping young girl’s mind. The woman’s long eyelashes fluttered but there were no tears shed, the same way her lips trembled with shaky breaths without uttering a single word. The image of the pain she was in spoke louder than any accusations or threats, it roared harder than the yells of war and clashing of weapons fading into the background of that vision. Amidst the burning palace, that woman stood slightly bent over, a black sword echoing the fumes of destruction piercing through her breast armor. Her tangled golden locks shone brighter than the flames, a sun washing the obsidian sky of terror and nightmares. And unlike the pillars of the invaded palace that were succumbing to a fire coloring the firmament an angry red, she did not collapse, tightening her grip on the blade that went straight through her heart drawing blood from her palms and fingers until she was forced to let go of the golden spear she was holding, as if daring the obscure figure that dealt her the fatal blow to drive his weapon even deeper inside of her seeping organ.

Whether the sword dived more into that woman’s flesh or was withdrawn in pity or remorse remained unanswered as Ayumi woke up every night at that same moment.

She had been having the same dream for as long as she could remember, more akin to a painting ripped off a fantasy tale or a historic book, and yet despite its repetition it never failed to bring her out of sleep with a wrenching feeling in her gut and a tightness strangling her heart in sadness for the injured, neigh, probably killed woman in the golden armor.

Ayumi rubbed her eyes shaking what had remained of her sleepiness away. She was used to that dream by now, she did not find it strange anymore and only curiosity persisted; did the woman die? Who was her killer? What was she fighting for in the first place? The recurrent dream was turned in Ayumi’s mind into a puzzle. However, the answers never came as that vision would end always at the same moment.

The seventeen year – old girl reached for the glass of water on her bed stand, she gulped a few drops before turning her eyes at the o’clock. It was almost six in the morning, there was no point in going back to sleep as it was almost time for school. A soft smile crawled on her sleepy face as she heard the creaking of the stairs. Her grandmother, in spite of the girl’s insistence, always woke up with her on school days, prepared her breakfast and readied her school uniform, even checked her bag and matched her books and notebooks with her week schedule to make sure she did not forget anything, thinking she was still the seven year – old crying girl left suddenly in her care. And at that thought, the girl’s smile flattened. In a sense, she was still that same young girl, albeit the crying, was tuned down by time. Her routine or lifestyle did not change. Stale as a moss stuck in a pond. The water of the pond may had changed, and maybe the little moss did float few inches further but it never actually left the water. And so was her life. She passed successfully her classes, never failed at her academic life, managed to maintain the small group of friends from elementary school to high school, and did not forget to take care of her grandmother and repay her kindness even if in small insignificant details and on top of all of that, she had kept the same hair style her late mother loved; pigtails with two bright pink ribbons though she modified the pigtails from high to lower ones tying only some strands into the style while letting the rest loose as she grew older. But that was it, all the changes she had made and all the facts she had accepted. Ayumi believed life goes for every individual in a sustained routine suiting his abilities and ambition, and thus never expected something out of the ordinary to come across her way.

And besides, what could she define “something out of the ordinary” as? She herself did not have a definition. The most bizarre incident to happen to her was that recurrent dream, and even that was filled with sorrow and disappointment; a dying woman, seemingly defeated or betrayed, posing a question never answered.

That dream persisted until her eighteenth birthday.