My friend smells gross.

He is a ball of flame now.

The Seniors allow me to stay. My face is bare; no lace. I wear my favorite piece, a sunhat, borrowed from another. Although the sky is a clear blue, ominous clouds approach from the east. The sun bears down on us all.

As I watch over my friend’s pyre, I recall his prayer. The specifics elude me, yet a verse within it persists in my mind.

“Per… mi… to es… to. Per… mito es… to” I attempt to recite, “Permi… to esto. Permito esto.”

Like my friend before, I raise my arms up, hands up, palms up, and with as much force as I can muster, shout:

“¡Permito esto! ¡Permito esto!”

“¡Permito esto! ¡Permito esto!”

“¡Permito esto! ¡Permito esto!”

The Seniors scurry over. One clasps my mouth shut. All seem nervous.

“Blasphemy!” a soft-spoken Senior blurts out.

“Stupid girl!” the stubby Senior clasping my mouth yaps; hands gripping the nape of my neck, “Behave!”

He pulls me away in a rough manner.

A red-capped Senior monitoring the group flicks his hands. Seniors with buckets of sand start to empty them onto the pyre. The flames extinguish with a sizzling crack.

I want to see him.

I try to near myself, but the stubby Senior’s grip on me does not loosen.

He must still be upset about the lacing. He watches over me in disgust, my scarring not to his taste.

The red-capped Senior approaches us. He signals to hand me over. The stubby Senior releases me and leaves in a huff. With an unnerving grin, the red-capped Senior gestures to follow. I peek over at my friend.

I cup my hands together, bow my head, clench my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut, and whisper, “¡Permito esto! ¡Permito esto!” digging my nails in, “¡Permito esto! ¡Permito esto!”

The red-capped Senior barks, “Hurry child!”

I want to stay with him.

I follow the Senior.

He leads me down an unfamiliar path. This place is dark and murky…

The red-capped Senior’s demeanor chafes. His shoulders slump, his walk grows askew; he wheezes, as if in pain.

What strange behavior…

The Senior stops before a yellow door. He clears his throat and announces to no one in particular, “We seek your guidance! We cretins of mother!”

A wispy chortle is heard beyond the door.

The red-capped Senior bites his lips blue, and in a nervous manner, repeats, “We seek your guidance! We cretins of mother!”

He creaks the door open and pushes me through. He then scurries off, shutting the door behind me.

Who?

Someone beams over me.

“I have seen this monstrosity before,” my angel muses, “the so-called…”

“Maven!” I interject.