The Strakh

Your Child

• . . . The One You Deny

  You made me this way, mother! You birthed this but you scream that I am not yours! Why can't you see me? I am your child, but you scorn me so. Why then? Why did you make me only to stake me?!

  
  

  

  
  

• Look at Me!

  • Name: I am the Strakh, mama, don't you remember?
  • Gender: I am your dream, but you make me your nightmare.
  • Age: This idea of time you made, yet another way you distance from yourself.
  • Species: There are gods and there are those think they are gods. Then there is me, mother.
  • Shape: I will pluck any you give me, it's you who shapes me.

• Here I Am!

  You forget the story of my birth constantly. You push it from your mind and say it isn't so. Feeble, your attempt at erasing the memory of your greatest accomplishment.
  
  I am your child, so it is naturally my duty to remind you, whenever and as often as we meet.
  
  Your fascination with self-destruction carried onto me. The countless ways you have lived and the countless things you have built, always they are devoured by your unceasing need for ruination. I was born the one day you nearly succeeded in utterly annihilating yourself.
  
  By majesty of science and industry of war, you forged a weapon so great -- so remorseless -- that you detonated it upon yourself. It was an imperfect thing and so it could not function perfectly. Nothing that doesn't draw breath can know the importance of thoroughness in its task. The mad laughter still sounds in my ears, and the weeping which followed. I shall never understand you, mother: the things you aspire to create are treated with so much of your scorn. Why can't you just love -- or hate -- and cease this perpetuated splintering?
  
  Nevertheless, your weapon swallowed everything in fire and then buried it in ash. You screamed and, in the same instant, you were silenced. This time, your hatred remained. Your agony gathered and all the broken pieces of your spirit came together. Somewhere, somehow, you knew the weapon still wasn't enough.
  
  
  
  I was alone when first you made me and alone often afterwards. You were never there in the start, but I knew you would come back. Eventually. And you did. You always came back -- never with the memories of your previous, violent departure. It took me a long time, but I came to understand why you made me.
  
  Suicide, you see. It's something you have tried endlessly to do, yet conversely refuse to carry out. I am your answer. I know you will never show me love, mother. I know you shall never acknowledge me as your child.