I swept the shards to the side, remembering the many times I’d hurled plates and cups at the walls of my room to release my emotions. The relief I’d felt every time one of them broke into pieces with a loud crash. But then the shadows got stronger. Simply breaking them wouldn’t dissipate them in my mind. I remember the day it’d gotten too much for me to handle. The darkness was pulling me down, down, down. Desperate for something to hold onto, something to pull me to the surface, I grabbed one of the sharp pieces of glass from the floor and dragged it across my forearm, gasping at the pain. My gaze sharpened, and my mind cleared, only able to focus on the searing fire that spread across my arm.
My bedroom door opened with a bang, my mom going pale at the sight of me. She yelled for my father, kneeling down to examine my arm. “Arya! What did you do? How could you?” I was silent and could only stare at the beads of liquid that rose to the surface, painting my skin a vibrant red. My mom was then crying, her tears joining the blood on my arm. Not a single tear fell from my eyes, however. The pain I felt was a relief, and I was thankful for it.
In the days that followed, I was under the constant observation of my parents. Not a single moment passed that I wasn’t under their watchful gaze. Vivienne had seen my bandaged arm, pursed her lips, but stayed silent. That was the first and only incident like that. Soon after, it was time for me to go to the Academy, and not a word was spoken about that day, my arm now healed, only a thin, jagged scar left as a reminder.
***
I force myself to lift my gaze from the pile of broken glass. “Do you see anything?” Valeska asks. “Anything that you think could help you?” “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for,” I say, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “Did she have any other special personal possessions?” Adira muses. “Another diary, perhaps?” Valeska looks through the books on the shelves frantically. “It’s getting late,” she says. “Should we come back tomorrow?” “To do what?” I ask. “There’s nothing here.” Valeska gestures to the pile of scrolls she still hasn’t looked through. “Maybe these will give a clue as to what Morana's plan was and how the Magic works. Don’t worry, Arya. We’ll find something if we keep trying.” “She’s right,” says Kallias. “Morana must’ve had some sort of plan. But we definitely won’t be able to figure it out tired and hungry. Let’s stop for now, and we’ll come back first thing tomorrow.” I sigh.
“Fine,” I say, putting down the quill I had been examining. The more time that passed, the more I lost hope not only in Morana but in myself. Maybe it was my fault I couldn’t access my magic. Maybe I had done something wrong? I try to keep myself calm as I follow the others out of the cave and back down the mountain, but I can feel myself start to spiral. We return to Rena’s house, going back inside to rest. While the others prepare food for dinner, I excuse myself to go to the chamber. After relieving myself, I turn my gaze to the looking glass, suddenly furious. I was tired of trying to meet everyone’s expectations. Of trying to be the person they wanted me to be. Who was I? I had never given it any thought. I had always relied on others to decide that for me. First, I was a responsible eldest child, then a hardworking Academy trainee, and now, Morana’s daughter. I had poured my entire self into fitting in specific boxes, but what was I outside of them? I no longer want the approval of others; I want the approval of myself. I raise my gaze to my reflection. Two small, dark brown eyes stare back at me, hollow and emotionless. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought the person I was currently staring at was lifeless.
I stare at my body, the body I had starved, trying to mold it into what others would see as the perfect shape. My hair. Kept long because people thought it was beautiful. What about me? Did I think it was beautiful? I finger the brown strands and, in a fit of fury, lift my dagger to my shoulder, sliding it through my hair in one clean swipe. I watch as the locks fall to the ground, crowding around my feet in a sea of chestnut waves. My hand trembles, and my dagger clatters to the ground. I mirror its movement, my knees buckling, my head in my hands. I begin to cry.
It starts out softly, a few tears sliding down my cheeks until I no longer have time to wipe them away before new ones start falling. All those years of suppressed emotions come pouring out from deep within me, where the shadows lie. Anger, envy, sadness, anxiety, worry- everything that fuels it. I feel the shadows rise up and flood my mind, pulling me deep into the darkness. I can’t think, I can’t feel. I'm only aware of the weight that’s been taken off my head, only to return straight into my heart. The weeps become wails, my breath coming in short gasps, my throat closing up. I slam my head against the wall. “Get out!” I shout, clutching at my head. “Leave me alone!”
There’s the sound of pounding feet, and the door slams open. “Arya?” Kallias pushes the curtain aside and kneels down beside me. The others are crowded in the doorway, there not being enough room for all of us in the small chamber. “Arya, can you hear me? Are you okay?” I can see Kallias’s lips moving to form words, but I’m unsure how to respond. I’m afraid to speak out
loud. I simply shake my head, swiping at the tears that are forming. Valeska leans forward and takes my hands, holding them in hers. “Oh, Arya,” she says softly. “What happened?” I shake my head again. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with me.”
Ayeza Moheet, age 16, is a junior at Minnetonka High School. Her favorite things about living in Minnesota are the snowy winters and visiting Duluth each fall. She enjoys both reading and writing, and her favorite genres are young adult fantasy, memoirs, and women’s fiction. She hopes to publish a book one day and is currently working on her first novel. When she's not reading or writing, you will likely find her baking, taking photos in nature, or cuddling with her three cats.
"Broken Plate" by ProjectManhattan is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.
