A woman wronged. That’s how all the stories start. Trampled, yet graceful. She bears her suffering with a smile, carrying the weight of society and its wrongs on her back- the emotional core of the family. A wife, mother, pulled from her motherwaters to a land, far far away. Forging a new home, forming new loves.
Forcing herself to keep going for a husband- for children. Far from the rivers that birthed her-
For family- for legacy.
But that husband can die. The children can too. A legacy destroyed in a single move. A wife bereaved, made a widow. A reverse orphan- mother without children, left helpless to watch her suffering come to a close.
A woman wronged. A woman dead. That’s how all stories start, isn’t it? Plunged into the waters of her birth- motherwaters- fomenting her rage at the bottom of the river. Skin wrinkling like in a bath- shriveling up like the last bits of her heart that she tried to cling to before the world ripped it all away from her. Corpse floating down the river, current pulling at her rage-
A woman dead. A woman rotting. A woman risen. Isn’t that how all the stories start? A woman- back where she started, clawing at some semblance of power in a world that ripped everything she loved away from her.
Mother of rage, mother of pain, mother of destruction- rebirthed at the bottom of that river. Life-bringer should be life-ender when all the lives she’s brought have ended, shouldn’t she? Shouldn’t she change then? It’s only circular. Seasonal.
A woman wronged. A woman fighting back- gun or knife or noose on her hip, vengeance radiating. A throat ripped- a voice broken- a child taken. Demeter letting the world starve to get Persephone back, Enola Gay dropping down death on hundreds of thousands for the crime of existing in the margins of a war. Freys upon Freys- dead upon dead-
An orphan-mother, destroyed, taking what she can from the world that took everything from her.