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Friday Fictioneers: Slave Bones, Part 3

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Slave Bones:/ Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 /

Another friday fiction prompt here again already, and now I’m thinking I shouldn’t have based the Slave Bones series in the desert. We’ll see what happens, the link to friday fictioneers is here. Hope you enjoy and constructive criticism is welcome.

 

 

 

Red sand seemed to stretch for light-years, carmine like the blazing eyes of an Ignis girl Rordan had met before he’d been thrust into the talons of slavery. He dazed out upon the barren land, his hands working automatically with a hammer to pummel the crumbling bricks.

 As he worked mechanically Rordan picked a random memory out of the many orbiting his brain. Images of lush green foliage strung to mind, rows of bursting vines with an abundance of succulent purple grapes just waiting to be picked. The memory of sweet fermenting grapes and crisp clean air was so strong Rordan could smell it there and then.

That summer had been unforgettable, when the tension between Ignis and Aluctions seemed to have settled and Rordan had felt free of malice. That was before the ‘Tear’ had happened.

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A Life Of Memories

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He was thrown out of sleep, the rush of reality hit him hard in the face. Sweat drenched every inch of his body, but he felt cold, cold and numb inside. He had been in a fight with his duvet again, because it was twisted and tangled around him like knotted hair. His duvet wasn’t the only thing he was fighting with, he constantly wrestled with the memories that haunted his every waking moment of life.

Pictures and films of his memories passed through his brain, unforgiving, relentless, and reluctant to be let go. Like newborn babies, they clinged to him, and followed him everywhere. All he wanted was to forget, he would give everything up just to live without the haunting images.

Paintings of blood, films of war, songs of terror echoed in his brain. The smell of death lingered in his nostrils, an odious after taste of the war he’d fought in. He feared his memories, but every thought was comprised of them, the dread of thinking about it, hunted him, his memories were his life.