But you gave her—
I altered mine to mimic the other type. Deactivated the self-regulating programming. Directed the more detailed transmissions to be received by my modulators located along specific neural pathways in my brain.
Bile rose in my throat and his next thoughts were desperate.
I sense her, but not in a corporeal way! I would never do anything to hurt her! It is like . . . I imagined it to be like a parent might . . . A sigh warmed the back of my hand. Even if the Servants noticed the extraneous data, they would not understand what it meant. They have no instincts. They rely on quantifiable data.
But the others like you . . . ?
Are lost to other planes. We can commune only by willing our modulators to entangle. It takes effort, and the information is filtered through our disparate experiences. It does not always make sense. He directed a wry laugh at my knees. And we lie.
The last of my anger subsided.
You know they lie to you.
He slowly raised his eyes to mine, and his uncertainty made me want to shake him.
You just thought it. You know they do. So why do you live like this? Why give up your privacy . . . your life . . . for this pain? And for my daughter? Why does she matter so much to you? Why now? Where have you been? With each question, his mind churned through memories and thoughts faster than I could process them. It was a raw jumble that he fought to repress, all swirling too fast for me to interpret.
Let me understand.
You do not want to know.
You think I’ll hate you. But I can’t.
Gathering both his hands in my lap, I tried to concentrate on how pure and beautiful I knew his soul to be, but his resistance distorted what I showed him. The colors and impressions I recalled meant nothing to him. It was as if he couldn’t comprehend himself as anything . . . worthy.
My pause was unintentional, but apparently, everything is fair game during an alien mind-meld.
How can you believe that?
His question was soft inside me, but the pressure to respond hurt.
This isn’t about me.
His brow creased, but the sun graced him as lovingly as always, illuminating his features as if it existed only to define them. Something was different, though. A tiny fleck of blue glinted in his left iris, like a sapphire making its way from within his buried depths, and at once I felt an urge to lay myself bare and be seen, too.
The memories came, unbidden but orderly, from where I’d carefully cataloged them over the years. Watching my mother wither away from a sickness somehow made worse by my presence; my father’s love slowly turning to disappointment and then despair; my pathetic quest for acceptance from strangers because I refused to ask for it from the person I admired most; trying so hard to love and nurture my child that I wept inside, feeling like a charlatan pretending to be something I was never meant to be . . .
. . . Emaciated children discarded like refuse across fallow lands; brainwashed workers sacrificing their bodies for meaningless symbols; catastrophes and chaos painstakingly crafted to benefit the few at the expense of the many . . .
. . . Cruel words flung in the guise of self-defense . . .
. . . Lovers abandoned for self-gratifying whims . . .
. . . Lovers discarded for trying to please . . .
. . . Killers rewarded for culling their herds . . .
. . . Friends slighted for offering their help . . .
. . . Evil . . .
. . . Selfish . . .
. . . Lost . . .
. . . Alone . . .
At first the memories were shocking. Painful, not only in remembering, but in feeling each other react to their triggered emotions; yet there was a measure of absolution in the act of sharing. In the empathy. In the desire to comprehend the other. There was a peace in being understood. In being known.
We have been silent too long.
He turned my palms up and traced the line of each bandaged scar.
“Thank you, Lilith.” We stood slowly, and his small smile mirrored my own. “You should go talk to her.”
“I will.”
“Soon.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he teased.
“What is she doing right now?”
“Researching on her computer.”
“Wanna bet?”
His laugh was surprisingly loud, and for just a moment he was surrounded by sparkling white angels. A quick bloom of hope and energy, their message was clear.
I linked my arm through his. “Come on, big guy. Time for you to learn a thing or two about teenagers.”
Everything’s going to be alright.
About the Author
J. Martain is a Wilmington, NC native who spends most of her time questioning the way the universe, and the beings in it, work. This often leads her down some deep “research rabbit-holes” until she resurfaces with a story.
Daughters of Men is the first in a series, and she would greatly appreciate feedback, so please consider leaving a review and visiting her website at www.JenniferMartain.com.
