The Sins We Carry from Birth
You celebrate him for what he did centuries ago. You still praise him for slaying what you think of as a monster. He took a trophy, like any serial slayer, put it in a sack for the way home and took it out when he needed to steal staring power. But why wouldn’t you? Witch hunting in the modern age wears many discuses and beating the spirit out of them is common practice.
Do you want to ask me about it? No, really, ask me about it. He comes from a long line of power hunters who suck the power from the bones of women. I should know, I made him a link on this line. See my father put the Gods’ foresight above his fathering role. Shaking in his ancient sandals that my son would take his life, he buried me whole in a chastity chamber.
And that was the first serpent egg my wrath let go of.
But Gods like to play with us mortals, so jealous of our passions and feelings, they intersect the giving of the universe’s gifts to us and wonder how we dare walk the earth of our own accord.
The King of Gods allowed none of that.
He took what he wanted, and he gave to the female kind of us a chance to live forever through him — how kind of him to give it to us so open heartedly and being considerate enough to not bother us with asking. He fancied me, no matter my confinements, he was a power flexing junkie, a nymphomaniac who could take any form, and he did. Rain was his metamorphosis of choice, and he didn’t waste a drop. He targeted it so strategically, so exactly to manifest one more of his countless sons within my womb.
The second egg dropped.
But did the sweet cooing of his grandson melt my father’s heart? How can stone melt. Like murdered bodies cast away to water, he got rid of us.
The third, tenth, twentieth egg joined the rest.
Water took us to a land where, once again, a man of power liked my look. He pressed his manhood against me, wanted to show me all his glory and make me his wife. I had the chance, this time, to say no but this could only be if my only son, the boy I raised to respect women, would go and cut down the slippery wrath I had let crack in another form.
I had put every outpour of oppression into those snakes. I had sown every mistreatment, every brutality, every ounce of suffering I had to endure at the hands of men into those snakes and now my son was sent to silence their rattle.
I didn’t tell him, I couldn’t tell him, he was defending my honour, just as I had taught him.
He became a hero. My heart broke from its stony form, and I suffer the pain of open scars from the start once more.
