Reading Souls

Her name is Nabascra Jones. The first time I saw the girl, she was wrapped in a cocoon of devotion. Under the fuzzy blue lights, she looked like an angel, or a crystal amongst plain grey pebbles, above all else she was glowing. She was dressed in a cream-colored kaftan, strings tied at all her limbs like a puppet. It felt like I was almost blessed by the light of her company, like a layer of warmth and comfort was casting over me. With the vision from my wide open eyes, her soul was so pure, and beautiful.

I hoped and begged something could have been done to this pure, caged soul. But it was fruitless because my hopeless desires didn't mean anything to the Queen. Nabascra, she had a lovely smile pasted on her face, sewn in by the feelings of devotion and obedience. She played along. She was raised well. She must have grown up listening and abiding to orders. No, I didn't know her, it was the first time my eyes met with the beautiful thing, but I felt like I've known her for forever. I was almost willing to risk anything for Nabascra's happiness and satisfaction. Do you know, that feeling you get when a thought about stepping on an ant crosses your mind, but you dismiss it? You feel good, proud. I want to be able to feel that. To free a wounded bird from it's narrow cage.

I had to do this, to save a kind of my own. For the girls of Clearwater. I had to save my species. And I swear, this time, I mean it.