home? back? starring ; aka-nïnda-gudï.
10/03/25

she had always been a girl made for working hands. that was what they told her. that was what she knew - all she knew.

she had no name in this house, no childhood, no warmth. there were only commands, only chores, only endless labor stretching into the horizon like a road that had no end. she did not dream of the children who sat in soft chairs and read books, the ones who lay in their mothers’ laps and cried about scraped knees. those were lives she had never known, and she could not long for something that had never belonged to her.

but she did wonder, sometimes, what it would feel like to rest.

her body was not made for the work they gave her. she was too small, too young, too fragile. she could not carry the heavy buckets without her arms trembling, couldn't scrub the endless floors without her fingers cracking and bleeding. she was tired. so tired.

and then, one day, she felt it.

a tight pull at her shoulder. the sensation of skin tearing, muscles straining. something inside her giving way. she gasped, clutching her arm, but it was no longer connected to her. it hung, limp, useless, before falling to the floor.

she screamed, but she was not allowed to scream.

hands grabbed her, yanked her upright, and pulled her down the dimly lit halls to the room where broken things were fixed. the needle and thread came out. the new arm was stitched on—skin darker than hers, fingers longer, knuckles sharper. it did not belong to her, but she was expected to use it all the same.

and so she did.

the first replacement was the hardest. but soon, it became routine.

her knees buckled beneath her?
new legs.
her hands blistered and split in two?
new hands.
her spine ached, bent too far from endless labor?
a new brace to hold it in place.

piece by piece, she was being replaced. piece by piece, she was becoming something that wasn’t quite ninda anymore.

but she could still speak. and so she thought, as long as she had her voice, she was still herself.

that was until the day they took that, from her too.

it was over a mistake. a misunderstanding. a word lost in translation. she had not meant to sound rude. had not meant to offend or attack. but that did not matter, as they decided she had.

she was chained, bound in place, her head locked still. she struggled, at first, until she realized it did not matter. her arms were not hers, her legs were not hers—what was left of her to fight for?

the torch was a simple thing. a club, wrapped in cloth, dipped in oil, set alight.

they did not strike her with it.

they simply held it close.

close enough for the heat to boil skin. close enough for the flames to meld skin together. close enough for the pain to become something so unbearable that her mind would simply shut off.

it started as warmth, as heat, and for a second—just a second—her brain didn’t recognize it as pain. but then it sank in.

her lips curled, bubbled, the soft flesh pulling apart and curling back in on itself. the smell was the worst—burning hair, burning skin, something sickly sweet and acidic all at once. it curled into her nose, filled her throat, made her stomach turn. her teeth felt like they were catching fire inside her gums.

she tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Her head was locked in place. the heat pressed in closer, closer, until her lips were no longer lips—just melted, seared flesh.

she couldn't even scream.

she could feel the moment they fused together, the moment her body gave up fighting. she could taste blood, ash, burnt skin, and then nothing at all.

a ringing noise filled her head. she felt her own body going slack, vision blurring at the edges. someone was still holding her down, but their grip felt far away, like she wasn’t in her own body anymore.

the last thing she saw was the fire. the last thing she smelled was herself.

and then, everything went black.


when she woke up, she was cold.

not just cold—empty.

the pain was still there, a distant, throbbing thing at the edges of her mind, but it felt disconnected, like it belonged to someone else. she reached up, instinctively, but the second her fingers touched her face, she froze.

there was nothing.

just smooth skin, ridged and uneven, as if something had once been there but was now gone.

she sat up too quickly, dizziness rushing through her skull. her fingers scrambled against her face again, over and over, but no matter how many times she touched it, no matter how many times she pressed against it, there was nothing.

no lips. no opening. no mouth.

she tried to make a sound.

nothing came out.

she tried again.

still nothing.

panic clawed up her throat, but she couldn’t even whimper. she tried breathing faster, but it only made the silence louder.

there was a mirror across the room.

she did not want to look.

she forced herself to.

the girl staring back at her was not her.

the skin where her mouth had been was flat, unnatural, wrong. a faint scar ran across it, the only proof that anything had ever been there. her eyes were wide, too wide, and for the last time in her life, she looked afraid.

she touched the scar, ran her fingers over the place where her voice had been, but there was no voice left to use.

she had thought, once, that as long as she could speak, she was still herself.

but now?

now there was nothing left.

not her body. not her voice.

just a hollow thing with working hands.

Edit

Pub: 11 Mar 2025 14:01 UTC

Edit: 12 Mar 2025 13:42 UTC

Views: 65