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That’s the thing with having transparent blood. No one could see you bleed.
If your blood runs red, go straight ahead. If your blood runs blue, you’re not coming through. Translucent hue, who are you, who are you, who are you? We’d tell you exactly who we are, if only we could, Hassa thought. The words, starting in the throats of the officers, had crawled across the river into the mouths of countless children. A nursery rhyme, they thought. Isn’t that how propaganda starts?
Tell them they are lesser. And they will feel lesser. Show them they are nothing. And they will be nothing. Take their identity. And they will be no one.
Grief is like a scab, each day you heal a little more, the blood clotting, the skin stitching together. But once a year you peel back the protective crust, each time expecting a scar, but instead the blood still gushes forth.
One: that it was a cost Sylah was willing to pay. Two: that Anoor had a mother who loved her after all.
“You are my Akoma, I grant you that, but you are not my heart.”
