clara collins. 10. cbd2.

In my dreams I run. Daughter of a jailor, daughter of a marital officiant, some sort of divinity that's bound through my blood - and yet I leave it all behind. It's just me and the wide open world, grass itching at my legs and mosquitos feasting on my outstretched arms but I don't mind. I'm running. Dreaming of something bigger than all of this - or at least the idea of it. And when I wake up I am crying. I tell Mama I dreamed of heaven - it's not a lie. Not really.

Do you think Papa would drag his own daughter to jail? Throw her to the barracks and let her rot? He's a tough man. Stern, of few words. Stronger than any of the other boys when he came of age, that's why they put him in front of the cells and told him to keep watch.

During the day I stand in the light and do my duty, sing soft harmonies about our holy son, born of two, slayer of four, rapture and sin and saviour of souls. Sitting pretty, waiting for Sawyer or some other Divine boy to prove himself holy enough to Father, let my mother weep happy tears and join our hands together and not have a say in any of it. Do my duty. Sing my songs. Be pretty, holy, divine. 

Maybe that could be nice. Maybe this could be enough. But the concept of leaving: I'd never thought of it until then, seven years old and unravelling my very being down to the thread.

And it's all I have been able to think of since.