There were times when Jajara Jara forgot herself. She hardly ever realized it, hardly ever noticed it: a blink or a breath and then she would become aware of the darkened sky bells later (or in a few occasions the rise of dawn). She would move and function without thought and there would be a pile of carefully wrought ingots at her side, or a bag full of perfectly polished gemstones. As of late, when she would take herself out to the edge of the desert where she liked to practice her art, she would be left with a feeling of great power, great strength that would only wane when she woke from the flow of movements that took her.
The door slammed and she was alone. The door slammed and she woke then, felt the breath heaving into her lungs, felt more than heard the dull whine of complete silence. No, not complete silence, she realized then. Footsteps light and quick were walking away. He was leaving. Why was he leaving?
She breathed and her lungs felt clogged as if with sand, gritty and sharp and stinging at the whole of her. Jajara was aching and, for a moment, she did not know why. The lights were dimmed in the apartment that they shared, in rooms that were always far too large for her when she was alone.
The door was shut and he was walking away.Â
Jajara forgot how to breathe.
The door slammed and she was alone. The door slammed and she woke then, felt the breath heaving into her lungs, felt more than heard the dull whine of complete silence. No, not complete silence, she realized then. Footsteps light and quick were walking away. He was leaving. Why was he leaving?
She breathed and her lungs felt clogged as if with sand, gritty and sharp and stinging at the whole of her. Jajara was aching and, for a moment, she did not know why. The lights were dimmed in the apartment that they shared, in rooms that were always far too large for her when she was alone.
The door was shut and he was walking away.Â
Jajara forgot how to breathe.
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