The day starts too soon. I know this because my brother has pushed me out of my bed. It's not intentional, just like the pain on my side is not intentional, but I'm still annoyed at both. The big oaf still claims his portion of the bed as if their older brother hasn't gone to war and left a vacancy to his right. He is restless, he turns, he knocks me off the side. He is firmly entrenched on the edge, which is just perfect. I get my revenge, I pull the blanket and manage to send him to the floor. Face first.

  “GAH, SAraaaaa”. It came out muffled, I grin, my annoyance assuage.

  Now you may wonder, why don't I claim my oldest brother spot on the bed hierarchy, if my only slightly older brother does not. Simply put, then I would be between brother and father and getting over sleeping next to one dude already broke my brain.

  Leaving the still swearing lump, I exit the room. I pass father sitting near the fire, stirring a pot of porridge. No eggs today, we ate the last of our chickens yesterday. Most of the livestock has been culled in the village already. Piss poor planning in my book but better to eat them now before they are emaciated from lack of feed. Another door, and I'm outside, heading to the outhouse. Failing to hold my breath again and freezing, I do my business and return indoors as fast I can to the fire that awaits.

  “Have you heard the voice yet?” Father asked without looking up from his pot. Any hope he had of such an event died after my tenth birthday a week ago.

  “No.” I can't lie to him. Literally I can't. The voice of god gave him [Discern Falsehood]. Fathers and guards tend to get a lot of practice at that one. Father is both.

  -----

  “What is the voice of god?” A question asked by a five year old.

  “It's what tells us where we stand in the world.” Comes the answer that answers nothing. Father clearly does not think an explanation is worth the effort.

  Annoyed, the child tries a different tact “What does it sound like?”

  “They say it sounds like the one you most loved at the time. Mine sounds like my father.” A tad misty eyed there.

  Tom chimes in, “Mine sounds like mom”. His eyes are worse.

  The child turns to her oldest brother.

  “Pa”. It came out disinterested in the conversation.

  The child scrunched her face, and acted to show heavy thought. “I think I heard dad's voice.”

  “Do not lie to me Sara.” It came out harsher than he intended. Habit from using his skill. Gentler “You'll know when you hear it. We'll make sure to throw a big party when you do.”

  The child, already cowed, looks at words only she can see.

  -----

  Memories, I couldn't hear the voice of god, but I can see them. Not that I could explain that. I don't have the vocabulary to say it. How does an illiterate child end up seeing words on a transparent screen in front of her that only she can see? How does she know the word vocabulary? Memories. Of [English].

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Around my 5th birthday, they started coming. No great concussion or fever started it, no near deaths, they just started being there. To be honest I've been told I babbled a lot as a toddler so maybe it was even earlier. Either case the memories just settled in, my favorites were of indoor plumbing and personal beds. Unfortunately, I have no sense of order to them. It almost feels like multiple lives sometimes. They like to sneak up on me when there is a situation that is similar. It doesn't happen all too often. To be honest I've grown to ignore them.

  So here I stand, a mastery of [English], screw you skill of intermediate 9, and a basic 8 in [Common]. As far as mister window in my soul displays for me. Everyone in the village hears the voices, so there is no one to compare my status screen to. As a child, my attempts at explanation are seen as imagination at first, but are ignored as time goes on. They don't believe me. I tried to get lessons in reading and was told.

  “Why bother teaching a child who can't even tell me their int stat.”

  Telling him that it's forty just leads him to scoff. I hated that old man even before he gave away all our food. I'm a regular ol hate the old man hipster.

  I'm not articulate enough in [Common], unable to learn to read to give an excuse why I see the words instead of hearing them. So I'm labeled voiceless and the whole village knows, thanks Tom, hows the nose. I even got a title for it, not that anyone will explain to me what titles mean. I don't get any instruction on skills, how to raise stats, or friends ‘cause being both mature and different are not desired in the five to ten bracket. Now I'm staring at a bowl with a depressingly low amount of porridge.

  Shit, how long has father been holding that bowl out to me. I take it, and sit down to begin eating it. I ignore the greater portion Tom got. It's a silent affair, until Father breaks it.

  “Today is our turn to hunt in the dungeon. You're both coming with.”

  That's surprising, Tom apparently agrees, “Why we bringin Sara, she voiceless”.

  “The village getting desperate, I'm not leaving her alone.”

  Well there goes the chance of being murdered today, guess best I can hope for is a mauling or being eaten. I skip speaking that insight, (what even is the [Common] word for mauling) and instead, “I can stay inside”

  “You're coming”. No argument.

  -----

  Tom and I get as bundled up as best we can while father goes to grab a cart. I wear cute little boots that don't quite fit right. The fur vest is better, a hand me down from my brother who out grew it. I've yet to grow into it, but having more winter vest is a plus in my book. Lastly, I grab my knife, sharp enough to cut twigs and to teach kids not to run with knives. I got it sometime after my sixth birthday. It was supposed to be my voice of god gift but gathering branches does not wait for the voiceless.

  Father arrives with the cart, he has a hatchet in his belt and a satchel on his side. As man purses go it's decent. We head to the path that leads out to the road. We pass the village fountain that purifies the water. It has some sort of bizarre name and an orb on its rim that everyone in the village touches everyday. “Tithing” I was told. Of what, I'm not sure. I'm not allowed to touch it. When I did anyways it felt like I sprinted a mile. Which was unfortunate as it was immediately apparent and I couldn't run away.

  We approach the stupid old man and he gives father one of the two tokens he still has. We're the last family to go, the twentieth family never came back. I'm hoping they ran away to sell it. I'm praying father has similar ambitions.

  It's 10,000 kings feet to the dungeon. 20,000 in Sara feet, not accounting for the road bending around various land forms. It quickly becomes apparent that I can't keep up, even with father pulling a cart. I blame the tyranny of stats and my short legs. Luckily for me, the tyranny of stats and ten year old stature means I get to ride in the cart. After sticking my tongue out at Tom, I use my comfy vest as a pillow and try my best at taking a nap.

  -----

  CRACK

  I hear what I assume is swearing shortly after. I take mental notes for later. The cart wheel is broken. That's going to severely hamper how much we can bring back. I hop off the cart as father beckons us to continue. Guess it better to get something then to head back. The sun above makes me think it's midday.

  It's about 2 hours later when we arrive at the dungeon, the nap did not result in any longer legs.