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She had no wish to transform trauma to performance, to parade what she’d come to think of as her own tragedies for entertainment.
It was perhaps dramatic to compare that to her own situation, but it was true. Her people’s survival was reliant upon her suffering. It wasn’t the intention. It was no one’s wish. But it was her lot.
She didn’t mean to be so cruel, but what else was she to do with the violence inside of her? Better to tear into Amaba than herself, when there was already so little left of her—and what was there was fractured.
That was all remembering was. Prodding them lest they try to move on from
things that should not be moved on from. Forgetting was not the same as healing.
We are not ashamed that we put every hope and dream for them into what we call them.
As sharing something in common with not just one other, but a whole us. Since she was fourteen, she’d always been marked as different by her role as historian.
She’d always done what she’d needed to do in service of her people, no matter the cost to herself. To preserve her own life, she’d fled, but now they needed her again, and there she was, willing to sacrifice herself for their benefit.
She’d been denied so much. It was only since escaping, since meeting Oori, that she’d learned what life could be.