#mechanical age

I miss my home. I don’t want to say it, because I promised I would be better, but I don’t have to if I write it. I don’t have to tell anyone. I will rip it out of my chest, put it on this page and then burn it. And then it will leave me alone.

I miss my room. My wind-up birds chiming in the morning. My window screen, showing me the starry purple sky and the pretty flowers. The locked doors, and not being allowed to go beyond them. The shelf clock, ticking and reminding me of the schedule. Mitra and Bevel coming in to wake me up, bathing me and dressing me at eight on the dot. Having breakfast at nine, idling a little until ten and then sitting through my lessons until two in the afternoon.

I miss the labelled hours. I miss knowing what would come.

We would have tiffin at two, and then I would practice my études from three to five. Then Mother would come at five.

I miss Mother.

I used to dread Mother, and I feel that I still might, but I miss her anyway. I suppose it was at least a familiar dread. Hurrying into my proper clothes, standing straight, reading without fumbling. She would stay for supper and until eight in the evening, then Mitra would get my bed clothes and tuck me in.

I miss Mitra.

I keep going back to the coast, wanting to see Mother’s ship arriving. Wanting to hear that Father is here too, that he finally returned to his kingdom and destroyed the enemy once and for all. Wouldn’t that be nice, you stupid child?

But the sky hasn’t cleared. If anything, it looks darker. She won’t come anymore, none of them will. She’s dead and he abandoned us. She’s dead because he abandoned us. I could have been dead too, I could be dead still, but he can't be bothered with so many prettier worlds out there.

Is it really that important, dearest Father, to have that many when you can’t even take good care of one?

No matter. I can take care of myself. I may be aching for home, but it won’t last forever. It can’t.

Today the coast was covered in washed-up wreckage from yesterday’s battles, and it stung as much as it always does, but I breathed and pushed it down. I helped Bevel and the Foreman scrounge for scrap to use on the shelter, so it can have more plating. We shouldn’t lower our guard if it’s still dark, they said, and I understand. It’s true that not even the black ships would sail into the perilous west, but since we somehow made it through its storms and to this strange land, nothing is stating that they can’t be just as fortunate and reach us.

Bevel has said that she disagrees, that we shouldn’t have survived and that some provident force must be aiding us, but I’m having trouble believing her. She’s being too fanciful, treating me like some destined princess that will save everyone. Somehow.