There was something about lying on her back as she gazed up at the beam of moonlight that came through her small window that always entranced Parisa. The moonbeam destroyed all discomfort that came with the day. It didn't matter that there was a chill to the air, or that she had little more than an old thin blanket to cover her skinny, naked body. Dirt and dust particle swam in the air, a constant reminder of her namesake; fairies.
That's what they were.
Her mother would spit at her feet and call her childish if she ever spoke her sentiments aloud. Of course, that would come after the beating. Speaking was prohibited unless she was spoken to. That was the first rule she'd been taught once she'd understood language. The second was to never fight back.
The horses in the small stable stirred as wind banged against the old wooden stable. Parisa blinked and moved her gaze like a sloth across the darkened space. The hay was itchy on her pale flesh and she shifted on the pile before sitting up, gripping the tattered blanket to her chest. She could feel her nipples, hard from the chill despite the numbness from her body, brush against the tough, ratty material.
Her customer had left a while ago, almost immediately after he'd finished with her, without uttering so much as a word; that never bothered the girl, though. She didn't like speaking after business, anyway. She enjoyed the quiet. She enjoyed not doing anything. Parisa kept to herself in her parents' slowly crumbling stable.
She was born eighteen-years-ago as an unwanted child to her mother and father, two poverty ridden peasants in Lingsct, a small town in the country of Tandelle boarding on that of Kurosu. Her grandparents, on the rare occasions she'd seen them while growing up, had informed her she was well doted on while growing up despite the heavy cost she brought with her. She was a beautiful child, so who could refuse her? Every strand of her silver hair was like freshly spun silk and, in the moonlight, it shone like Shisala, the Goddess of night and mist. Her flesh was a soft porcelain that stood in stark contrast to the dark ashy color of her eyes and even darker lashes that shaped the small orbs.
Parisa was a good child; a quiet child that always managed to make her parents smile with a simple glance their way. People spoke of her beauty and word continued to travel through the land. Her parents basked in the attention she brought to their house. Parisa remembered these times fondly as they were the moments when she was genuinely happy. She would do anything to continue seeing her parents smile with such affection while telling her she was a good child. Which is why, when a nobleman came to town looking for her, offering a good price for a single night, she did what her parents asked.
She kept her tears silent, though the nobleman seemed to enjoy it, calling them gems that dribbled down the fine smooth flesh of his little moonlight fairy. The voice had chilled Parisa to the bone; it penetrated her skin just as the man had penetrated her body. At least the man was partially gentle, at least that's what he claimed to be, but words did not wash blood and words did not allow Parisa to walk the next day. Her parents had apologized and begged for her forgiveness by offering her all her favorite foods for dinner that next night. She gladly forgave them which made the second time easier and the third time after that even more so.
The relatives never knew about it, but the small town of Lingsct became well aware and even the disgusting common men that Parisa tried to avoid came to have a taste of the town beauty and, if they had the right amount of money they were allowed their meal.
Her mother was the first to become cruel. It was in brief moments; slip-ups to her usual demeanor. It started when her hair began to gray and her age began to show. She would look on at her young and beautiful child, adored by many. Her child whose name was passed between lips from different countries. A beast began to roar in the woman's heart. She continued to take the money, though it became less about the profit and more about spite. She spit foul words and curses at her once beloved daughter and took pleasure in seeing man after man go and defile the beauty.
Parisa's father gradually became worse, as if in response to the mother's attitude change. He never laid a hand on his daughter; he left that job to his wife. Rather, it was his own disgrace and disgust built up in the shame of what he'd done that took over the old man. He could scarce look at Parisa. He couldn't seem to stomach the bruises on her neck, on her arms, and the bags under her eyes. He couldn't handle the dead, glassy look on her face without being reminded of his bitter deeds. So, he moved his daughter to the horse's stable out behind the shed when the girl was just thirteen. And this is where she has stayed for just over a year now, the captivating beauty of a child, disgraced and pitted in her small hometown.
Parisa shifted on her small bed of hay and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. She pulled her knees to her chest, ribs poking out against her thin thighs. She leaned against the wood of one of her stalls. Outside, a lone owl called, and the wind continued to come and bang against the stable. The horses had settled down, and the night was mostly still.
It was times like these, in the cold, unforgiving beauty of the night, that unrelenting thoughts drifted through her head. She tried not to think back or reminisce about the memories. She tried to forget the life that seemed so far away and so disconnected from this one.
- When had it been?
Parisa wondered as her fingers toyed with the hem of the tattered blanket. When had it been when her memories of her previous life began to haunt her so? A life in another unrelenting world. One where technology ruled rather than magic and horse-drawn carriages were little more than tales of times called the Victorian era or the medieval age.
The memories hadn't come all at once. Rather, they began appearing in her dreams around the time she'd turned five, six years before the first man came to her room. Her mother had told her it was just an over creative mind and laughed it off.
"My sweet fairy, you're so creative for your age." she'd say, affection shimmering in her dark brown eyes as she'd caressed Parisa's head. Parisa had listened to her mother and put little thought into it until the dreams became more vivid.
A family. A loving father and doting mother. An annoying little sister and protective elder brother. There was a school and homework and friends and going out to places called cafes where people ate sweets and a bitter drink that was similar to this world's coffee were served.
Most of the names were like static in her mind. All of their faces were fuzzy. No matter how hard she tried, she could never quite grasp the memories. She'd tried speaking of it, to solidify them, but her parents didn't want to hear of her dreams, so she began keeping them to herself.
So many years had passed since they first began, and only one name stood out to her.
"Su-ho," Parisa whispered the name drawing a shiver from her body. It knotted her stomach and heated her chest. It was her name. It was her secret. It, and the dreams that sometimes found her while she slept, were her only solace in this new world she'd been brought to.
Parisa had never bothered asking what her purpose was in this place. Why she was brought here or how she'd died in her previous life. After the first man had visited her room, Parisa had been too scared to pursue anymore thoughts and questions into her old life.
She surely thought that she must have done something awful to be reborn here.
Parisa sighed and tucked herself against the wall. She kept her eyes on the small window, captivated by the fairies that danced in the moonbeams.