Sigal

Sigal, from birth, knew nothing of a voice. She sat among her self-produced clouds of lavender smoke and listened to the strange mumble of her parents. Her head would tilt and her mouth would open in an attempt to mimic the noise, but found her throat rasping the same air she produced from her skin.

Her parents expected a creature of iron. Instead, she bowed as a sapling in the wind. She ushered forth a love in silent profession with each lean of her head, each comb of claws through hair became a symbol of her heart’s spilling adoration for a world she believed hosted too much cruelty. Sigal grew keen to reverse the expectations given to her by a heartless world by filling the void with her own soul. She would squeeze her love into the darkest of corners until it permeated the very skies. Though she could not express her desires to her friends and family, Sigal knew better than most that action could speak where words could not.

She led a life of devotion to pacifism. Her body became a tool to be called upon when needed, to diffuse tension, the pores in her skin steaming thick plumes of lavender smoke. It would cup the cheeks of the suffering between canorous gusts and press its nepheloid palms to their nostrils and plead with them for the same peace Sigal knew within herself. Her dedication to such arts left her a painter of the very air. She decorated the space she existed within with claws to pierce through steam and scrawl visions of landscapes seen in her travels, watching her fleeting art kiss the skies.

Sigal pondered often. Her voiceless questions made a home within her skull, noise stolen from the throats of others, borrowed to ask internal interrogatives that begged her for answers she could not fathom. As she watched the rain pour from the sky, she grew lost in her spiralling contemplation, thoughts of a life led in which she owned less of a heart and donned the armour of a hardened soldier, instead of embracing and overcoming, learning to retaliate and break apart opposition. She wondered if that was more the life she was envisioned to have by parents who could have only speculated as she lay dormant in a growing cocoon.

But as she watched the rain’s downpour start to soften, she realised. She could not stop hoping for the better. Though she was mute, she grew with the companionship of her closest friends. Though she lived in a world not purely good nor evil, and though she had seen the trials and tribulations of mortal life, she sought better than to delve into an easy pool of cynicism. The rain lifted as the clouds began to pull themselves apart, lapped by ushering winds as holes of vivid blue shone through the deep, opacus greyness. Her gaze never left the ray of sun spilling in the midst of the wet and the shadowed.