Sheep wool, twisted, bended, thinned until it became something at once fine, beautiful and yet so fragile that it could snap if one weren’t careful. She’d never handled a spinning wheel in her entire life but that was how she felt. Like the wool that has been stretched so thin it might break with the slightest pull.
They said in Ancient Greece that life was a thread in the hands of the Moerae. She wondered if Clotho experienced any pleasure spinning the thread of her life. And when Lachesis would decide it was measured. She’d never been in control of that wheel. Maybe the cutting had been a challenge to Atropos. Oh sure, her mother would pale at the heresy of her thoughts. She was a good Catholic girl. At least she acted like one. But if nothing else, she had the freedom to keep her ideas to herself. That was what she did best. Never say anything. Please everyone. Be the strong one, the good one. While her siblings got to be wild and messy, she must act the perfect eldest child. She could hate her father for that but she didn’t. She’d merely let things happen. It was ineluctable. And she was here. About to break everybody’s heart. She felt bad but she had to do it. If she didn’t… Her mother would know that the fear of God and Hell weren’t enough to keep her from doing the one thing that couldn’t be undone.
Somehow she accepted that her life wasn’t hers to cut short but challenging the goddess or God really had felt like the only thing she could control. Now she had to walk away, to put her needs, her wants first. Think of herself in a less destructive way. She had to leave. She must. At least there was a possibility of returning: not necessarily from the knife that caressed her skin and broke it every so often. She had to find whether the wool she was made of could be fine yet sturdy or whether she was as coarse as the sheep wool as it’s just been shorn from the animal’s back. Find herself before the thread is measured, before it is cut. And so she must break her mother’s heart and leave. So she could return knowing who she was. Cross the ocean… And return changed for the better. Better than not returning at all from the journeys in darkness she’d taken where the end was ineluctable, unavoidable. She couldn’t tempt Fate this many times without having to pay the price at some point. She had to take control, be the spinner at the wheel not the thread on it. The path led to England. She would follow it.
In response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie writing prompt #154 Look to the Stars