Blood Soaked Snow
Chapter One
The streets were vacant and dark. The streetlamps had all been taken away, for no one walked down these roads anymore. The buildings had been taken away too, for the Aliens—Jagmarales—had no use for them. They just used the ships they came to Earth with. The ships were incredible with technology. The computers and lights were all so detailed and millions of years advanced of us, Humans.
I don’t know when they arrived, but they crashed into the Earth’s atmosphere. Once they got a look of the Humans and how similar we think, they decided to make good use of us. First they abducted thousands and thousands of people. They used them as experiments. They wanted to know more about us, with out asking us. A few years later they decided they were being wasteful. The Jagmarales gathered us up underground, and made that our homes. We then became slaves for them. We constantly must leave underground and bring them food, or give them something they want. To the Jagmarales, we only existed for their comfort. It sickened me every time I brought a plate of meat to them. The way they looked at me with their red beady eyes. Not only did it disgust me…but I was frightened. They were much more powerful than Humans. They were a cross between a reptile and a bird. They walked on two legs, but most of them preferred to walk on all fours. They had long scaly tails that shimmered purple; it was used to whip us when we misbehaved or made a mistake. They had beaks that were filled with long, jagged teeth. The teeth hurt badly when they bite something, I know. I have a long scar along my forearm to prove how sharp they are.
Their wings are tucked into its back, and when it wanted to fly, it would come out of the pocket it holds it in. The only way to tell them apart from each other is the colors of their wings. They rarely flew, for they could run as fast as they could fly. How do we communicate with them, you ask? The way they do it…is harsh. They have their own language—trust me, they use it when they don’t want Humans knowing what they’re saying—but since they need to understand us, they must learn what we speak. They pick out the weakest person in a group and take them into a room. They then suck out the Human’s soul, learning everything they knew, including speech.
Whenever they came to Earth, they had some kind of dust on them. They had something different about them that mutated a few strings of DNA in a couple of Humans. No one knows how, but it happened. Those people then gained…super powers. I know, it sounds pretty stupid, like something out of a comic book. But it happened, and suddenly these people had faster reflexes, better senses, and were stronger. They also gained something with their mind. It was like their brains adapted and took on a new trait. I don’t know. Anyway, these people could then do things with the mind—like telekinesis. For most of these people they just could move things, but others…they gained control of an element or something around them.
Apparently I’m one of the lucky people to get those genes. My mom didn’t have it though—at least I don’t think so. I don’t remember her. The Jagmarales killed her soon after I was born, because they knew she didn’t update them about her pregnancy. The other people in my area hid me, because they knew the Jagmarales would kill me if they got the chance. Anyway, the telekinesis power I have…it’s a curse really. Some people must think, “Oh it must be so fun to be able to do stuff with your mind!” No, it’s dangerous. I can’t let the Jagmarales know I have this power. They’ll think I’m plotting against them and they'll kill me.
What’s my power? It’s Cryokinesis. Cryokinesis is the ability to drop temperature, and control it. So, I can freeze things, just with a single thought in my head. All of the other things I just said earlier, about the super strength, fast reflexes, blah, blah, blah…Yeah I have that too. I can’t use my powers very often, for people would see and the Loyalists would tell the Jagmarales about it. I can’t let that happen. Ever.
The only person who knows is my “nanny,” Gloria. She’s about in her sixty’s now. She has a wrinkled face, and is very thin. Her hair is pure white, like snow, and she has dark brown eyes. She kind of looks like a Cherokee woman from long ago. I can imagine her dancing around a fire, singing songs in a different tongue. It figures that she’s also the healer in our group. Whenever someone gets whipped or scratched, Gloria sprinkles some of her special herbs on them. She’ll say a prayer to someone and then bow her head. I loved watching her do it, and I wanted to be just like her.
I don’t look anything like her. Part of it is because she's sixty and I'm fifteen. I’m average height for my age, and am very thin from the many nights of the Jagmarales not letting me eat. I’m pretty pale, from not being in the sun very often. Gloria said my skin reminds her of silky milk. I have midnight brown hair that’s side swept across my face in short strands, and the rest reaches a little bit past my shoulders. I always have my hair in a ponytail though, so it won’t get in my way while serving the Jagmarales. I have a round face shape, and people say my face kind of looks like an ancient warrior. My eyebrows have an arch to let people know that I have a determination inside of me. My lips are small but full, and have a natural pink shade to them. My eyes—the brightest feature—are an icy blue, which matches my power. Gloria told me it reminded her of glaciers floating on the sea, how their colors mixed and made a breathtaking scene. But when I looked at the mirror, all I see is my curse mocking me.
I usually don’t wear very nice clothes. I wear the same thing everyday, and I would change if I could, but I don’t have anything else. It’s a pair of dark jeans with tattered holes at the knees. My shirt is a tank top, random holes reminding me of how hard work is. Our work usually consists of finding food for the Jagmarales, making gifts for them, harvesting food from the plantations the Jagmarales let us keep, or helping each other out with chores. I usually help the older woman with their children. When their mother must leave, I stay with the children and entertain them and keep them well fed. Gloria always comments on how I’ll make a wonderful mother one day, but I don’t think I want to have kids. They’re hard work. And I hate seeing them grow up in this world. This world is harsh and cruel. I think it would just have been better if the Jagmarales killed all of the Humans long ago.
One of the things I really hate about this world is the Jagmarales’ Rituals. They're terrible. We have to bow down and give gifts to the Jagmarales’ leader. The leader is horrible. It’s uglier than anything in the world, and it stinks too. It’s a large, fat, purple blob that resembles more of a chicken than anything else. It doesn’t have feathers though; it’s slimy and bumpy like a frog. It’s huge, taller than any skyscraper I’ve ever seen pictures of. It always sits in a giant chair and all the Humans in our area have to go. If the Jagmarales sees us when we are supposed to be at the Ritual, we’ll either be whipped or eaten.
Anyway, at these Rituals we kneel on one knee in rows. We close our hand in a fist, lay it across our chest, and bow. The Giant Slimy Chicken (Which is called Barbslo by the way) judges the gifts we have brought him. We then chant to him, saying we hail him, hold him high above us and crap. I don’t mean it, and I wish I didn’t have to say it. If the Jagmarales catch me not chanting though, I’m dead meat. I mean that literally too.
Gloria always tells me that chanting to something that isn’t even close to a god is foolish. I agree, but I’m not sure what a god is anyway. I wouldn’t want to ask Gloria, because she might laugh at me for not knowing. I wonder if that’s what she prays to when she heals people’s injuries…
Tomorrow I have to work hard. The Jagmarales have noticed that I’ve been a bit distant lately. If I don’t work harder tomorrow, they’ll whip me twice as hard, and make sure I have scares left on my back. I signed my name up on harvesting the crops. We’ve been short on food lately.
Right now I’m lying in my bed, thinking about these things. Our beds are made of hay and cotton blankets. I’m staring up at the musty brown ceiling that has some roots from the grass above. I’m always afraid that it will cave in, but it never has. Someone just blew out of the last torch in the tunnels, and now I am surrounded with darkness. It will be much easier to fall asleep now. I close my eyes, stroking the cotton blanket. I felt so warm under the blankets.
Usually I’m as cold as snow.
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