Heartbeat [Alec Volturi]

Saffiya

Air filled my lungs as I revelled in the purity of the world I was about to leave.

The scene above me might as well have flown off the pages in a children's book. Clouds as white as snow were suspended in a sea of ocean blue. The breeze weaved itself through my hair and tickled my cheek. Around me, an ancient building rose up from the earth on four sides. Built from bricks and spotted with lovely vines of ivy, it was almost as grand as a castle. The sky met the steeple, the highest point of the building, designated by a cross. Inside it, was the clocktower. With a bell that chimed loud enough to induce a migraine.

The cloister hallways that surrounded me would echo with every step taken within it. An archway in the middle of each of the four walls granted access to the gravel path where I was sat. The path was surrounded by the greenest grass you've ever seen, always perfectly cut. It had never been walked on. Which made it all the more tempting to do so.

I let my head fall back with another deep breath. This world was idyllic and I had never appreciated it until today.

I was in the center of the courtyard — a garden designed to be a 3 foot tall maze of flowers took up most of the open area. The colours that made it up could give a rainbow a run for its' money. Between the lavender, the roses, and the dashes of other obscure and attractive flowers, the senses were so overwhelmed that they eventually evened out. I hardly noticed the smell anymore.

Though it wasn't a particularly complicated maze, my younger self would attempt to zoom through it as if racing an invisible playmate. My goal was always to reach the middle, where a stature of Mother Mary rested. For some reason, I found comfort in sitting and looking up at her. Perhaps, because I'd never really known my own mother and wasn't Mary supposed to be everyone's mum?

I'd never bought into religion much, despite being raised half my life by a faction of nuns. I had tried, really I had, but the fantasies in my head provided me more structure and satisfaction. The nuns never pushed belief on me and I think I'd be more devout if I had been introduced to religion as a child than as a pre-teen. Still, I followed the daily schedules and attended mass and prayer (most of the time). It was a part of my life and while my life was lovely, it wasn't enough.

I still had Mary and she was there whether I believed in her son or not. The first time I found her I was crying and alone. When I had discovered her in the middle of the maze, I'd been so struck with fascination that I had stumbled into the flower beds behind me. Rose bushes.

The nuns found me a few minutes later, where I was still staring up at her with thorns in my hands from trying to catch my fall. One or two in my shoulder and my legs. They fretted over me and tried to carefully pluck them out when they noticed that I was more focused on Mary than the prick of the thorns' removal. 

It was called CIP - congenital insensitivity to pain.

My entire life, I'd lived without ever experiencing physical pain. Which is great — in theory. In practice, however, dangerous and quite literally, scarring. When I was three, I ended up with third degree burns after leaving my hands on a stovetop without ever realising that I was burning the skin off of my hands. I wasn't clumsy, it was just that bumps and bruises were almost as natural as meal times for me. 

To put it into perspective for you, here's an example. The part of your brain that rationally reminds you to not punch a wall because it would hurt does not exist for me. If you did punch a wall hard enough, you'd get bruises, maybe blood on your knuckles if you were angry or strong enough. But, you would feel it because it would hurt. Maybe you wouldn't be able to write with that hand for a bit or brushing it against your bedsheets would make it sting.