• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
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The gates were open. It used to be that they’d leave me things. Some baked bread or a small portion of their own meal. Later it was bird bones and pretty stones. Or perhaps the trinkets came first. I can’t remember. The bright blue bag reminded me of it. Woven plastic - the old styles meeting the new. There was nothing. I don’t know what made me check. I forgot myself. I forgot all the time that’s passed. There was a time I – but what’s the point in dwelling on these things? They’ve abandoned me, and I abandoned them. I don’t know which happened first. Time is a funny old thing. I created a world and these children to fill it. Built them in my image. I forgot how petty I can be. I forgot how cruel. And they lapped it up. They took every bit of me and spread it out amongst themselves. They pulled at the core of me and stretched me out until I was thinner and thinner. Then they stopped calling to me, altogether. They started learning from each other. They built on our faults, nourished them with each subsequent generation.
They started building. How I admired their little houses, the genius of wattle and daub. In a blink of an eye, I filled cathedrals. I marvelled at them. Just look at what they’ve taught themselves to do. What minds they have! There is so much, there have been so many times I’ve known, “I wouldn’t have thought of that”. It filled me with pride. I would never have thought to make, think, design so much of what they’ve created. What right have I, now, to hate the bombs they use to tear it all down? They created medicines and I chuckled at how they had ripped death right out of my hands. I admired their gumption. I was flattered by their independence. Watched them flout the rules and smirked, thinking, “they get that from me”. But that was eons ago. They still had time for me. They looked for me, cried for salvation. Looking back, I think they knew exactly what they were doing. They knew my vanity, it coursed through their veins, they knew every inch of it. They knew as long as they prayed and worshipped,



I’d leave them be. I’d let the golden shrines and churches line my ego while it charmed their pockets. I turned a blind eye to their darkness, their villainy. Selfishly ignored their selfishness. They are so cutthroat. So ungrateful. Everything I did for them. Everything I offered… I gave. I gave so freely and for nothing. There was a time I could have done something, it’s so long past, it’s not worth mentioning. They’ve created their doom. And I’m glad of it. I hate that they make me feel like that. Every part of me still loves them, yearns to hold them, buoy them up. But I am petty, and they’ve made their bed.