The Goddess Pit

~October 6, 1983

Tomorrow is the Endowment ceremony, that sanctified and most holy of ceremonies that continues our legacy. And yet, I cannot help but have twinges, regrets...guilts. Mother says I should not have any guilts. She says it is the will of the Goddess that it be this way. And yet this guilt still sits in my center, cold and heavy, like a smooth river stone pulling me deeper down. Mother says I should rejoice in my coming gifts, and to know that I will pass them on to my children. But again, I cannot help but think, at what cost?

~October 7, 1983

Tonight is the fated night. I thought I was going to be sick this morning, but Janice told me everything was going to be alright. She showed me her stellar fire again, pink and purple and orange, all at once and yet its own color somehow. She is so strong, and so beautiful. We do not deserve her. Mother had me and the boys set the table and get the house ready while her and Father made the food. Marjorie and Stella readied the Pit.

Mother really went all out this year, baking flower crusted pastries and honeyed meats, buttered noodles and vegetables, the works. Only for the Endowment. Its all her and the other adults seems to talk about, even though they never mention their own. It makes me wonder what she'll talk about afterwards.

Its over. The ceremony is over. This generation's Endowment has been bestowed. The cousins and the aunts and uncles have all finally gone and now here we sit in a silent house, all in our own dark corners. The new day brings change.

I'm really going to miss her.

~October 21, 1983

Getting used to the gifts has been...trying, to say the least. Stella nearly burnt all her hair off, for the third time. Bolin has already blown off three fingers, and only one was his own. And I haven't had a decent night's sleep since the Endowment. I still don't know if it's just guilt, the gift manifesting itself, or the new voices that have been whispering in the back of my mind. Something tells me reading thoughts is going to be more of a burden than a boon.

~September 19, 1984

It's been nearly a year since the Endowment and I have gotten quite good at my gift. Reading thoughts can be distracting and overwhelming but it also has its benefits, if only they knew the real reason I seem to know everyone's little secret. The voices have been quiet, but I haven't missed them.

I still think of her every day.

~December 10, 1997

Mother has gotten sick. What with Father passing only a couple years ago, we all knew it was bound to happen. The doctors say she only has a couple months left. Its a little uncanny how they all went in order, Mother and her siblings, from oldest to youngest, nearly all a year apart from one another. Spooky. As Mother likes to say, we mustn't dwell on such things, the uncanny.

Mother was always cruel growing up, but in old age and sickness, she has become even more so. The constant "all I've done's" and "if you had's" really start to weigh on a person; like the never reachable expectations, the things you wish you had said, and everything you kept locked inside, too afraid to speak it into existence, too afraid of the reaction, the confrontation. I always had to be the bigger person.

Sometimes I still see her fire.

~February 27, 1998

Mother has passed. We threw her ashes out into the sea where she wanted. I do not have many feelings. But I do have many thoughts, questions, but not many answers. The voices have come back, because of course they have. They say I should visit the pit, visit Mother's old house. Has anyone claimed it yet?

Would she be proud of us?

~May 4, 1998

Despite my best instincts I have laid claim to our childhood home, not that anyone else was really jumping for it. What with Stella and Bolin being the only one's married and sadly unable to have kids. Mother would be turning in her grave. They're happy, and to me that's all that matters.

The voices have not let up. They speak of the attic and old books. Mother's secrets they say. Who's voices are these?

Does she miss us?

~July 13, 1998

The voices were correct. There was a secret room in the attic, full of trunks filled with books and papers; journals of grandmothers and aunts and uncles from before, generations and generations all living in this same house. I have begun to pour over these notes, these missives, these anecdotes. I do not know what answers I seek, just that there are answers hidden in these dusty tomes and forgotten words. Words never spoken.

I guess my only real question is why? Why her?

~August 3, 1998

The Voices will not cease. It is almost impossible to focus on reading, they call me to the Pit. Could it be the Goddess? When I look into the Pit I do not feel her presence in my chest the way I do when I look upon the moon, or the majesty of her splendor in the mountains. When I look into the Pit I see nothing but a goddess-shaped hole. Who could these Voices be? They demand my attention, and yet I have answers to seek.

Did she know these voices?

~January 15, 1999

I know now. I know who these Voices are. I know the dark secret our family kept. How easily they kept it from us, using their little ceremony to trick us into playing into their game, only to expect us to do the same. Its no wonder the family kept their distance after I received my gift. Hard to keep secrets around someone who can read minds.

The first-born. They're the key. Originally, our family was blessed by the Goddess to have a gifted first-born, a protector. Someone to keep watch and guard over their younger siblings. But one generation, the first became sick, and passed. In their grief, the parents prayed to the Goddess, who gave them the Pit. They threw the first into the Pit, and the other siblings then gained gifts. It was supposed to end here. The Pit had been meant to be their insurance policy. A way to ensure the generation had a protector. But they misused it. WE misused it.

After a certain point, the family decided that it was better for the entirety of the generation to have powers, and not just the first-born. So every first-born was eventually tossed into the Pit, despite who they were, despite what they could do, despite what they wanted. Every first-born was sacrificed to feed our legacy. To grow the family. It makes me sick.

The Voices are still calling. It's them. The first-borns. Every oldest child, sent down to an early death for their siblings. They call with sorrow, and anguish, and pain, and rage. They wish for understanding, empathy, redemption, and peace. Every word unsaid, every feeling pushed down, all the guilt, all the regret. It's them. It's always been them. Calling. Wishing. Crying.

She's one of them. Janice. My oldest sister, who could make stellar fire with a flick of her wrist. She was perfect, and kind, and sweet, and smart. But she never got a chance. Because Mother said so. If I could, I would have thrown her down that pit, just as she had done, for her body to break upon the bottom and be with her oldest sibling. With all the Firsts.

When I look into the Pit now, it fills me with such dread and sadness.

The emotion that radiates from it is almost palpable, the air always feeling slightly stale around it. The Pit had always been an ugly thing, deep, dark. Nothing grew by it, its cracked white stones like cracked lips gasping for water. Looking into it, I never thought it had a bottom, but it has to, right? Where do all the bodies go?

When I look into the Pit now, I do not feel alone.

When I look into the Pit now, I feel someone looking back.

Is she the one looking back? Or is it someone else?