Prelude wrote: It was during the middle of a particularly harsh winter when the egg hatched.
The forecast had been bleak for the past month. Everywhere viscets were bundling up in their houses, tucking themselves next to their fireplaces and next to each other. Even for northern Montana the sudden drop was unusual, and the cold snap’s icy freeze had driven most public activity to a standstill.
It was very cold.
And yet inside the spacious house it was hot and comfortable. The fireplace roared, its crackling voice warm as it crooned of peace and sleep. Blankets and stuffing, arranged into a nestlike bundle, sat carefully pooled onto the coarse rug before the stone platform of the fireplace’s threshold. From within its cozy cradle the egg shivered and cracked, stirring the female that lay curled around it. She lifted her head for a long, thick moment, expression morphing as she watched the egg begin to tremble.
Her jubilant cry brought her mate, stumbling into the room in astonishment as the hairline threads of space began to widen and separate. Both of them curled around the spotted life, heightened, eager nervousness running thin between them as the tremors became blunt force rattles.
The egg broke simply. It wasn’t violent, or dramatic. Apprehension tainted their excitement when a piece of the shell separated entirely and slipped downwards to one side. But then a black nose rimmed in white protruded through the dim crack, and as the white fragment lifted and two striking green eyes blinked out at them, all nerves faded away and melted into immediate love and affection.
Nearly sobbing with love and happiness, the mother coaxed the viscling out gently, tapping her claws on the blankets just before the egg as the father sat in the immobilized shock of joy. The tiny viscling watched her for a moment with the confusion of infancy before lifting two white-rimmed paws to press on the top edge of the shell, and bubbling laughter spilled from both parents when the imbalance sent the viscling sprawling to the ground just in front of the egg.
Gingerly, the mother reached forth and gathered the dazed infant into her paws, bringing the already-tiring bundle to her chest as her mate rested a paw on her foreleg. Exhilarated and giddy beyond belief, the parents looked at each other for a long moment, breathless as their tiny life burrowed into her mother’s warm fluff and began to succumb to the gentle pull of slumber.
Tenderly, the father laid his nose against their daughter’s back.
“Welcome to the world, Mara Rheally Shannister. Welcome to the world.”
Snow wrote: It took three winters for the flaw to become apparent.
“Mara! Your friends are here to play!”
The snow was fresh and heavy from the previous night’s storm. White and etheral in its perfection, its glittering surface caught the sun and brightened the clear day, sparkling in the eyes of the visclings that were aching to run through its fluffy chill.
Mara stood pressed against the glass, her gaze vacantly intrigued.
“How far may I go out today?” she asked softly, watching as a blue-and-white viscling tumbled through his front door and out into the white.
“The same as usual, honey. Please stay where you can see the house.”
From beneath her rose-and-white toboggan Mara nodded, and within seconds the front door was swinging shut as a black tuft whisked through the opening.
The blue and white viscling was already playing in the snow. His paws were making small, silly indents in the snow, and he laughed to himself as a door slammed and another viscling flitted towards him, this one green with hints of gold.
Mara’s approach interrupted their enthusiastic greetings.
“Snowball fight?” she asked without preamble.
Both viscling grinned in her direction.
Words were scarce as all three split and began scrambling for their preferred snowdrift. The snow was wet today, and that meant projectiles would be hard-packed and accurate.
It didn’t take Mara long to assess her position. The ground she’d chosen was hedged on one side by thick evergreen bushes, providing cover but also reducing her field of vision. To her back was the snowdrift--her arsenal--and to her right she had an open view of the street and neighbouring yards.
For a few terse seconds she studied her environment. Then, with a plan devised, she set about building a quick, sturdy little wall to hide behind, shoveling snow from the edge of the drift and compressing it into two fat bricks. Once finished the formed corner was large enough to mostly conceal her body, and she set about shaping and piling snowballs while alertly watching for movement.
It wasn’t much longer before the first missiles struck the ground behind her. Ducking down, she listened for the telltale whistle of snow slicing through the air, and after a long moment of silence quickly rose and flung one of her own in the direction she knew the green viscling lay.
They’d only been throwing for a few minutes when a voice called for a halt. She rose from behind her wall and was greeted with the fuming face of the snow-drenched blue viscling.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, stalking towards her rapidly.
“Throwing snowballs,” came her blunt reply.
“No! I mean what are you doing with a wall!”
Genuine confusion sparked in Mara. “What do you mean? We’re allowed to build walls.”
From behind a snowdrift the green and gold viscling slowly rose, watching the scene unfold with the nosy curiosity of childhood. The blue viscling began to splutter, his ears pinning back against his head. “I-the-it-it was supposed to be obvious!”
At once Mara understood what was happening. The other child’s pride was taking a beating because of her smarts, and he was here to throw a tantrum. She watched with a sudden rise of indifference as his tail lifted in what she recognized as indignance.
“You never said we couldn’t build walls.”
“It was supposed to be obvious!”
Mara whipped about on her heels, leaving her corner and her dwindling pile of snowballs behind as she began to walk towards her house. “Fine. If you want to make up rules because you don’t like losing, I’m going home. I don’t wanna play anymore.”
Her only warning was the snow crunching beneath the blue viscling’s paws. She began turning a mere moment before claws grasped at her scarf and yanked her backwards.
Instant fear and anger boiled up inside her throat. Her lungs tightened and her stomach clenched. In an instant she had regained her footing, and with a high-pitched snarl she whipped around, opened wide her jaws, and bit down on the first flash of blue to cross her vision.
The taste of blood in her mouth was sharp and real. The scream of the blue viscling went nearly unnoticed as he began to thrash, struggling to tear free his tail from the iron clamp of her teeth. It was only when snow began to fling into her eyes that she released her grip, stumbling backwards and breathing harshly.
Red splattered onto the snow, steaming faintly in the hard light of the sun. The blue viscling was crying and scooting away from her, his unsightly tail leaving a bright trail.
Mara stared at him in silence. Her snout was wet.
She licked her chops as she looked away and caught the gaze of the petrified green viscling, meeting his golden eyes with crisp green.
Adjusting her scarf, Mara turned, and went inside.
Diagnosis wrote: A sociopath with the tendencies of a charismatic psychopath. That was the official statement.
To be a sociopath meant to be an individual with a personality disorder causing extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior, accompanied with a lack of conscience. To be a charismatic psychopath meant to be an individual with exceptional manipulation abilities and a lack of empathy.
They called it unfortunate, a shame. Mara thought it a blessing.
Despite her apparent newfound lack of empathy, she was able to at least understand why her mother cried. Always an emotional creature, her mother cried somewhat easily and her love for Mara was strong. She viewed this change as an undeserved stumbling block in their lives. In the recesses of her own calculating mind, Mara wondered why she wasn't grateful that her daughter was unburdened by the powerful hold of fleeting emotions that could hinder one's good judgement. If anything Mara was relieved. She'd never have to deal with the trivial sensations to the same degree as her foolish peers.
Certainly, she still experienced emotions. They were there, but muted, their volume cranked so low that they weren't a distraction to the strong, clear voice of reason that domineered her thought processes. She felt a foggy sense of heartbreak for her despairing mother, and a tug of guilt that whispered in her gut. But they were as nothing to the torrential cocktail of emotions swimming through her mother's eyes, and Mara’s face remained straight and plain as though she'd been read the daily weather.
Her father was silent as he held the older female. Mara knew that he would deal with his reaction to the moment later. Her mother always came first in his eyes.
“What...does this mean for me?” she said quietly.
All eyes turned to her.
The psychologist in attendance met her stare levelly, his head tilted slightly, and remained silent.
“What changes? What does this word, this label, mean? What difference has been made in me now? I’m not incapable of social function, I’m no Spock.” Mara shifted her gaze to her parents.
“Nothing has changed.”
The tension in the room rose to its crescendo.
“I am Mara, and I will always be Mara.”
She was proud that her voice only quavered a little.
Anew wrote: Snow seems to be a recurring theme for her.
The flakes are fat and soft this time. Slow, lazy, they swirl through the black night sky to pile airily against the side of the house. With no wind to disturb them, the piles build into dunes, growing upwards against the grey paneling like some wintry moss. They’re silent, as silent as the world around them, and together the silence is deafening.
A door, creaking with effort, swings open slowly. The roar of nothing dies down long enough for the emerging figure to clear their vision.
Tucked around her shoulders is a pack, mounted upon their back like some shapeless rider. The door is closed quietly and swiftly.
She puffs out a thin, low breath into the snow, her head lowered. Stillness claims her form for several seconds, the quiet of the snow suddenly dulled. Green eyes turn to examine the house behind them. Their color is vivid against the muted greys of winter.
Turning, Mara begins to walk.
She doesn’t stop for a long time.
Fragmented wrote:The book.
She remembers...she remembers the book.
Was it large? Brown? Rich? She doesn't remember.
The walk, the walk there, it was difficult, this she recalls.
The cave. It was huge.
The flame, the green, the color. She certainly remembers the color.
She had a decision. A decision to make, but she'd already made it, too long ago, when she was naïve and stupider than she looked.
Pain.
Pain.
Yes, she remembers the pain.
One. Three.
She remembers three, because she has three.
She will always remember the pain.
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