Lia

I was six years old when my life truly began.

Not in the way childhood is supposed to begin.

Not with birthdays, scraped knees, or schoolyard laughter.

It began with sacrifice.

Even now, after so many years, the smell of fried rice, sesame oil, and the damp breath of the jungle still lingers somewhere deep inside me, waiting to crawl back out like a nightmare.

The year was 2004.

Our home stood in the heart of a small village deep within the Indonesian countryside. It was simple and warm, the kind of place where a little girl should have been safe. The kind of place where the worst thing in the world should have been boiled vegetables.

That night, the dinner table looked exactly the same as always.

The only difference was the silence.

I, Aprilia, sat there at the glorious age of six, wearing the simple cotton clothes my mother had sewn for me. My bare feet barely reached the floor as I balanced my plate on my lap, overflowing with childish excitement and endless chatter.

I complained dramatically about the boiled vegetables my parents kept forcing me to eat.

But something was wrong.

My father’s face, usually calm and gentle, looked stiff, as if the muscles themselves had forgotten how to relax.

His smiles came too quickly.

Too forcefully.

Like someone desperately trying to hide a terrible mistake.

My mother sat beside me sweating despite the cool evening air. There was a strange brightness in her eyes, an exaggerated enthusiasm in the way she talked about dinner, as though she were trying to convince herself that everything was normal.

They asked about my day at school.

They talked about how much I had grown.

But above my head, their eyes kept meeting in silence.

And even as a child, I could feel the tension moving between them like an invisible storm.

It was as if they were performing a cheerful play while secretly knowing tragedy was waiting behind the curtain.

"Aprilia," my father said, his voice slightly louder and shakier than usual, hidden behind a short laugh, "if you finish your whole meal, even those green vegetables you hate, you’ll get the special dessert your mother prepared."

My eyes widened immediately.

Dessert was the universal currency of our household, and I was more than willing to face any challenge for something sweet.

I narrowed my eyes at the small pile of vegetables on my plate with the determination of a warrior preparing for battle.

"I accept the challenge, Dad!" I declared proudly before shoving a forkful into my mouth.

I grimaced instantly.

But I chewed bravely.

While I fought against the bitter taste, my parents watched me carefully.

Not with pride.

Not with amusement.

Their eyes remained fixed on me with a terrible tension that I could not understand at the time.

It felt as though every bite pushed me closer to the edge of a cliff.

Finally, I finished everything on the plate.

A wave of childish triumph rushed through me.

"I’m done! I ate it all!"

My mother inhaled sharply. Relief crossed her face for less than a second before being swallowed by guilt.

"You deserve it, dear. A true champion," my father said.

His laugh sounded like shattering glass.

I immediately looked toward my mother, excited for the promised treat, and she slowly stood, extending her hand toward me.

"Come, Aprilia. Let’s go get your prize from the kitchen."

Before I could slide out of my chair, violent pounding exploded against the wooden front door.

THUMP.

THUMP.

THUMP.

It was not the knock of a neighbor.

It was the knock of someone demanding to be let in.

The effect on my parents was immediate.

Terrifying.

My father’s forced smile vanished instantly.

The whites of his eyes widened.

My mother pulled me tightly against her chest with a desperation I had never felt before. Her grip hurt my arm.

Her entire body trembled.

My father rose slowly from his chair, his legs seeming unbearably heavy. Even then, he tried once more to force that same artificial cheerfulness onto his face.

"Take her to get dessert, darling," he said, his voice thin with nervousness. "I’ll answer the door. It’s probably... neighbors."

He laughed again.

Drier this time.

More fragile.

More false.

My mother nodded silently, her fearful eyes locking onto his for only a brief moment before guiding me toward the kitchen.

"Come, sweetheart. Daddy will be busy for a moment."

But my father did not hurry toward the door.

He staggered toward it slowly, as though each step demanded a battle against himself.

Then he unlocked it.

And opened it.

The light spilling from the house revealed three figures standing outside.

They were not neighbors.

The men wore orange and black ceremonial robes decorated with necklaces and jewelry adorned with pagan symbols, golden tiger silhouettes, and tiger heads carved from ebony.

Even at six years old, I recognized them instantly.

Priests.

Devotees of the tiger god worshipped throughout the village.

The leader possessed an almost unnaturally serene face, but his eyes looked hollow.

Empty.

He raised one eyebrow slightly.

Not in curiosity.

In expectation.

Like a collector arriving to claim a debt long overdue.

"Greetings, Brother," the leader said calmly, his voice smooth and melodic. "Is everything going well with the family?"

My father clasped his hands behind his back.

Despite all his effort to sound composed, nervousness leaked through every word.

"Y-yes... everything is fine, thanks to our supreme god."

The priest smiled.

The expression never reached his eyes.

"Wonderful," he replied calmly. "Then I trust you have not forgotten your debt of gratitude to our supreme god, and that you are prepared to hand over your promised one. The time of awakening approaches."

My father’s smile collapsed immediately.

His eyes widened with naked horror.

"The... debt?... But... has the time of our lord’s return already come?"

"Yes, old friend," the priest answered patiently.

Too patiently.

"Our supreme god calls from the spiritual realm. His vessel must be prepared as soon as possible. He will descend to cleanse this world of madness and human corruption, ushering in our new era of peace and prosperity."

My father did not answer immediately.

Instead, his eyes drifted toward the darkness behind him.

Toward us.

My mother stood there with her back turned to the door, holding me tightly against her body.

She tried hiding her face behind her hijab, but I still saw her stumble beneath the weight of her guilt.

She was already crying silently.

My father released a heavy breath that sounded like it carried the weight of the entire world.

Then he turned back toward the priest.

"I-it’s alright..." he muttered hoarsely. "For the good of humanity... and for a new era of peace... just allow me to say goodbye to my daughter."

The priest shrugged indifferently.

"Do not take too long. We do not have all day, and our supreme god cannot wait any longer."

My father closed the door slowly.

Like a coffin lid sealing shut.

Then he walked toward me.

Slowly.

Unsteadily.

When he finally reached me, he wrapped his arms around me with crushing force.

A farewell embrace so desperate it hurt my bones.

"Daddy... is everything okay?" I asked softly, confused as his tears soaked into my hair. "Why are you sad?"

He pulled away just enough to look at me again.

That painful smile returned to his face.

"Nothing, daughter," he replied sweetly, though his voice trembled badly. "Daddy just wanted to hug you and show you how much I love you."

His eyes glistened.

"And I want you to know that no matter what happens in this new stage of your life, you will reign with prosperity, wisdom, and great power."

I smiled innocently.

Thinking about comic books.

"Power? What are you talking about, Daddy? Are we playing superheroes again?"

"Hehe... No, daughter. Not this time."

His laugh sounded hollow now.

He knelt in front of me and stared deeply into my eyes.

One final silent plea hidden behind his expression.

"Listen carefully, my little one. I want you to understand that we are doing this for the good of everyone. The world needs you."

I frowned in childish confusion.

"Needs... me? For what, Dad?"

My mother trembled in the corner of the kitchen, desperately using the edge of her hijab to hide her uncontrollable sobbing.

My father looked toward her.

Then back at me.

And finally spoke the words that destroyed the world of six-year-old Aprilia forever.

"You, daughter... will become the shell of our supreme god. He will return through you and change the course of our history."

I was too young to understand the true meaning behind his words.

"I see, Daddy. And when will that happen?"

"Immediately, my love. You need to get ready. You’re leaving with the priests so they can prepare you to receive our supreme god."

Leaving.

That word finally pierced through my innocence.

The fear of separation struck me all at once, raw and unbearable.

Then the pounding returned.

THUMP! THUMP!

The sound echoed violently through the house once more.

All three of us widened our eyes simultaneously.

Mine.

My father’s.

My mother’s.

Time had run out.

My father took my hand, only to hesitate halfway through the motion.

My mother shakily packed a small bag with my belongings while crying uncontrollably.

Together, with the dreadful slowness of people walking toward an execution, they guided me to the front door.

The priests stood waiting outside.

Watching me.

Smiling with those cold, cynical expressions.

Terror consumed me instantly.

I grabbed my father tightly.

"Daddy, I don’t want to go!"

His throat tightened shut.

So did his eyes.

But not before I saw a heavy tear slide down his face.

My mother covered her mouth with her hand and broke down sobbing, her knees nearly giving out beneath her.

"Listen carefully, my little Lia," my father said, desperately trying to sound comforting despite the hopelessness in his voice. "You have a great purpose ahead of you. You will rule this world with courage, claws, and great power, even if you are not entirely in control of yourself. But you will endure, my love."

"But I don’t want to be queen of anything!" I cried helplessly. "I just want to go to my room and play with my toys!"

"This is greater than us, my love," he insisted painfully. "You are our promised one. Our pure soul that will allow the arrival of our god and the cleansing of this world."

My crying finally erupted completely.

And the priest leader stepped forward impatiently.

"We must leave! Your daughter must be prepared for the ritual before nightfall. Hurry."

My mother suddenly embraced me with the desperate strength of someone clinging to what had already been lost.

Sobbing endlessly, she whispered into my ear:

"Mommy will never forget you. And in this new stage of your life... I hope that deep down, you will still remember us too, daughter."

When she finally let go, I could barely breathe.

The priest grabbed my arm.

His hand felt cold.

Rigid.

Inhuman.

He guided me outside, where a priestess with equally hollow eyes waited beside a humble vehicle.

I climbed inside trembling and crying.

The door shut with a final click.

A sound that sealed my fate forever.

I pressed my face against the glass for one last look at my parents.

They stood there in the cold drizzle of a cloudy evening, crying in each other’s arms as they watched me disappear.

They loved me.

But they loved the tiger god more.

That was the final moment of innocent Aprilia.

From that point onward, I was no longer a child.

I was the vessel.

The lamb offered by the very people who should have protected me most.