I am one of many children. Let me talk about our Mother. She received us all together and from our first conception, she didn’t really want us. She saw us as a burden to her beauty. She hated our existence from what she was used to. Over time, she did eventually appreciate us as our erratic and venomous behaviour kept the men at bay.

Day in and day out, she would roam the halls feeling sorry for herself. We would all cry to her to feel better. But she would not listen. We were a part of her, her children and she couldn’t let us go.

Men from far and wide would come to see her. We could see the regret in their faces as they stared eternally at us. Her eyes, mesmerising and petrifying at the same time. Some wore extravagant and embossed armour. Impressive, expensive and shining. Yet when Mother was done with them. They no longer shined. Some wore light gladiator outfits, showing off their muscular and strong bodies. Yet when Mother was done with them. She had them sculptured. So that any visitors would know that these beautiful men had come to see her.

Some men were jealous of Mother, that they would come solely to hurt her. She knew how to defend herself. She carried a bow that she shot with heartbreaking precision. She would convince them to cease their folly and accept her beauty for what it really was. Accept her children and how we were hers and she was ours. We coiled with glee when they yielded to her. In a way, it validated our existence.

This would not last as we have been kidnapped. With have been thrown into a clothed bag and taken. Mother is with us but she is silent. She isn’t breathing. Red acidic liquid smothers us and we squirm. We tie ourselves up in knot as we struggle to breath.

We are taken out. We hiss at the bright daylight. Mother stares. And the world freezes.