I have the same dream every night.
I am five years old, it is night and I have awoken to screaming yet again.
My world was simple, feral and new to the light of the God Emperor, only having been enlightened 3 years ago.
I had spent my day listening to the new lords speak of His wonder and majesty, and how we must always be vigilant for signs of heresy and witchcraft.
On any other night, my mother’s screaming and crying would have seen me bury myself deeper in my bed. I had never seen her being beaten, but the wounds and bruises the next morning in odd shapes on her resigned face would corroborate the screams of the night before. But this night, emboldened by the Preacher’s sermon of vigilance in the face of horror, I had to do something.
I moved out of the loft where I slept, and silently made my way to the kitchen. Strange shapes were flying in every direction, and as I got closer, I could not believe what I saw.
This man who I had called Father was hurling plates, forks, pots, pans, CHAIRS at my mother….without picking them up, he just screamed at her and another object would fly through the air and slam into her cowering body.
It was the table that did it.
Her head made a sickening crunch sound as the corner of the table slammed into it. She stopped making any noise, her body limp, eyes glazed over and mouth agape, filling with the blood pouring out of the hole in her head.
None of this stopped him from continuing his assault.
He was so consumed in his task he did not notice me pick up a butter knife from the floor and climb onto the counter.
In one quick motion I jumped on his back and brought the dull knife down into first one eye, and then the other in quick succession.
He screamed, flailing, confused and angry. I held on and just kept stabbing until he shook off my tiny body. I slammed into the wall next to the fireplace.
Before he could figure out where I was with his hideous powers, I grabbed a stick from the fire and threw it as far as i could toward him. I was so small, it did not reach, but it did hit what remained of my mother, her hair going up in flames; a sick kindling that quickly spread from surface to surface until the whole room was alight.
A calm came over me; I knew that I would die, that this fire would consume me, but that he too would be destroyed, this man this False Father, this heretic.
He was screaming now, the fire traveling up his cloak. He was lashing out with his witchcraft, but it only made things worse as flaming furniture and pieces of the house were all that was left for him to throw around.
As I close my eyes and felt the heat on my skin, I became aware of another sound, barely audible through his screams…suddenly, the door to our home was kicked down, and an angel appeared.
She was tall, with white hair and shining black and red armor. Her face was an unreadable mask as she surveyed the destruction: the screaming man, the burning hunk of flesh that was my mother, and me, sitting on the floor by the hearth looking up at her, mirroring her blank expression.
Without taking her eyes off of me, she lifted her gun and shot my False Father in the knee, ending his futile movements and making his screams grow louder. He was now powerless to outrun the flames.
She strode over to me, the fire and the screams of the heretic of no bother. She stood over me, as though waiting for something.
I presented the butter knife to her, blood and bits of eye clung to its blade, and she smiled. She bent, picking me up easily with her other arm, her gun still held at the ready.
“Little Sister,” she looked at me, the flames dancing in her eyes, “Our Father has been looking for you.”