A Lullaby for the Minotaur
It is truly cruel to bury a child named Asterion. “The starry one” who was suddenly ripped away from the lights in the sky. A boy who was born as a punishment, condemned to a prison away from his mother’s arms. It is almost ironic; born flawed due to the sins of another. His mother’s reckoning and his father’s embarrassment. They locked him away, a monster deserving only of cold dark stone. He cries for his mother. Prince of the Labyrinth: destined to die by the hands of a “hero”.
I was born with the name Ayah. Ayah: miracle, gift, & verse in the Quran. So holy and oh so proud. I carried the name like a noose around my neck. It never fit. I was born wrong. I was never meant to embody a miracle, not in the traditional sense at least. I was fifteen. My father was driving me home; he had just picked me up from the outpatient mental hospital in Livonia. Insurance would not cover the cost of my treatment. The car ride had been silent, it always was. As we made that U-turn for the fourth time that week, my father told me he knew Allah loves him because He gave him the hardship that is me. In Islam, Allah gives his most esteemed believers difficult tests they must persevere through, he explained. I spat out an “Okay”.
I was born wrong; a sin meant to relieve my father of his. My father’s beast and my mother’s horror. They locked me away, a monster deserving only of cold hard stares. I cry for my mother. Child-like Whore: destined to die by her own hand.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
They did not kill Asterion. They forced small shaky legs to take steps in the dark. It was damp. Five small toes that look like mine and yours hitting cold stone. The first few nights he cried for his mother… his human arms bringing his human knees up against his human chest as he curled into a ball, clinging to the memory of his mother singing lullabies under a starlit sky. Oh how he missed that sky.
My parents did not kill me of course. Since eleven it seemed I was subjected to punishment after punishment. I remember when I first realized my father was no longer the man I once loved. I used to be a daddy’s girl; like the Minotaur was a momma’s boy. I was eleven, it was after my first parent teacher conference as a sixth grader, she, my English teacher, claimed I would never be an A student. She called me a liar as she recounted my excuses for missing homework. I was crying in the living room, still taking off my coat as I reeled from the words spat in my direction from teachers who were supposed to support me. My father slapped me, his palm against my cheek and I fell to the floor. He locked me away in my own labyrinth; my room.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
It was 3,285 days before Asterion finally saw another person. By then his humanity was stripped. A crying boy turned starving monster. He was young enough to still wait at first. To listen to footsteps and believe they might mean rescue. He learned to quiet his crying because no one ever came when he made noise… they only came when he was starving. Fourteen people entered his labyrinth and none came out. All ripped into- eaten for survival. Yet his hunger was never satisfied. His mother’s voice is faint in the back of his head, slowly drowned out by the screams of his victims. They gave him sustenance without tenderness. Survival without companionship. Flesh without care. They kept him alive but never let him live. Hunger does not only live in the stomach. Hunger lives in the heart. They said he was blood thirsty… an inherently destructive force to be reckoned with. They forgot they turned him into this. They forgot they ripped him from his mother’s arms and buried him. His siblings, born of the same blood, walked freely in the world above. They were fed without fear, held without consequence, and loved without having to prove their worth. He alone was hidden away, not because he was violent, but because he was born different. He had to learn that presence meant food. He had to learn that no one would come to stay- they would only come to die. So he ate.
I was in my room a lot. On and off, grounded for months at a time, the longest being a year. I was not unloved. I know my parents love me. I was given attention, but never understanding. I was given rules, but never safety. I was given discipline, but never affection. I did not need perfect parents. I needed ones who would hold me without asking me to justify it. My parents treated love like a scarcity. It was something I never inherently deserved. It was something I had to win. My siblings became my competition and no matter what I did I always seemed to lose. The only way I could ever achieve affection was through academia so I decided to find love elsewhere. I have three younger siblings. Love was rationed, and I learned early that I was not the chosen mouth to feed. I learned to earn love by other means. I always assumed it was love. I was far too young to know of the word lust. I was only eleven. I was only twelve. I was only thirteen. I was only fourteen. I was only fifteen. I was only sixteen. I was only seventeen… earning love in ways I never truly understood. I had my innocence stripped from me while trying to find traces of love to feed on. I was six; running from a curious fourteen year old girl who ran her hands over parts of me I did not even know existed. I was eleven; subjected to sex enslavement for several months by three men who I will never be able to identify by face. And I was fourteen; dissociating as my math teacher ran his hands over my chest, squeezing and pinching, claiming it was a massage for women who were stressed. I realized I was no longer a child, but a monster of desire. I was no human to them. So I played the role they wanted. I disguised it as love, running my claws over people I knew could never love me the way I needed them to.
My father called me a slut… an inherent burden that he would be ashamed to bestow upon anyone else. My mother called me a horror… an inherently destructive force to be reckoned with. They forgot it is their blood and actions that run through my veins. They forgot they ripped away the love I was once drowned in and locked me in my labyrinth. I learned that I was undeserving of love. I learned that I was only ever a sin to hide. I lashed out. I consumed attention. I burned relationships before they could abandon me. I hurt people before they could hurt me. Not because I wanted to. Because I did not know how to receive anything else. And hunger… real hunger… does not make you polite. It makes you desperate. So I ate lust instead of love.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
“Ayah”; miracle, gift, & verse in the Quran – The name I was born with. I am no miracle.
“Eve”; to live, life, breathe, living, & the first woman created – The name I swore I would change my legal name to at eleven. People assumed I was Christian. “Duchess”; wife of a duke & the name of the mother cat in Aristrocats – The name I tested for a bit at fourteen. It felt too regal for a monster.
“Cherie”; dear, darling, & beloved – the name I liked a bit better at fifteen. Far too soft for a beast like me. “Minx”; boldly flirtatious girl, tease, flirt, & slut — The name I thought defined me well at sixteen. It hurt to hear it all the time.
Names I recycled through.
It is said that a monster needs a name that stands out: Dracula. Frankenstein. Bigfoot.
Godzilla. Mothman. Wolfman. Bloody Mary. Chucky. Ghostface. Pennywise. Mr. Hyde. Xenomorph. Kraken. King Kong. Chupacabra. Medusa. La Llorna. Bogeyman. Devil. Satan. Lucifer. Bell Witch. Krampus. Babadook. Jersey Devil. Slenderman.
Asterion became the Minotaur. I could never commit to a name.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Yalat na’am || Go to sleep Yalat na’am || Go to sleep
Tithaq 3laa Ayah tet na’am || Laugh at Ayah who wants to sleep Walibihabha bee boosah || And those who love her give her a kiss Tithaq 3laa Ayah tet na’am || Laugh at Ayah who wants to sleep Ayah
Ayah
Wa na’ah || And those who chose her Shar’ha aswad || Her hair is black
Wa na’ah || And those who chose her
Walibihabha bee boosah || And those who love her give her a kiss Tithaq 3laa Ayah tet na’am || Laugh at Ayah who wants to sleep
My mother used to sing this lullaby to me as a child. I never took the time to understand the lyrics until I began to sing it to myself during long rough nights. I used to pull on the fur attached to my scalp and scream, crying and begging to be freed from the fate I never fully understood. I wanted freedom the way lungs want air. I would have torn myself apart for it. I clawed at the thing I was told I was- the fur would come out in clumps, yet grow back heavier, and the horns would only sharpen as my fingertips bled, desperately trying to rip them off. I did not care what was left behind as long as something escaped.
After my eyes would go dry and my throat raw, I would hum.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
They say Asterion was the monster. The labyrinth existed because of him. The city trembled in fear because of him. But the labyrinth was not built by him. The sacrifices were not chosen by him. The hunger was not created by him. He was not the cause. He was the consequence. Asterion was not born violent. He was abandoned. He was not born bloodthirsty. He was starved. He was not born monstrous. He was a child. He was made into something unrecognizable after being buried alive. They gave him flesh and called him a beast for consuming it. The monster was never the boy. The monster was the king who entombed a child underground. The monster was the city that allowed him to feed on innocent men and women. The monster was the world that decided a child was undeserving of affection for the horns on its head.
It took me a long time to realize that I was not born wrong. I was born with such a large capacity of love yet none to fill it up with. I realized my anger was not cruel. It was proof of survival. My desire was not corruption. It was proof of starvation. My reactions were not defects. It was proof of my exhaustion. I have my flaws as we all do. But I am not the monster my home made me believe I was. I was evidence of what happens when a child is locked away. I was evidence of what happens when love is conditional. I was evidence of what happens when affection is replaced with discipline and discipline with shame. My father called me a slut at eleven years old. My mother called me a horror at fourteen. But horrors do not create themselves. They are born out of abuse, neglect, and silence. They forgot they taught me hunger. They forgot they taught me shame. They forgot they taught me how to survive without love. Asterion was not the monster. He was the mirror. I am not a monster. I am a survivor.
A survivor of abuse of violation
of apathy
I am a survivor.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Oh starry one… the “hero” spills your blood and the people cheer. They leave your corpse to rot in that dark damp prison. Your body grows cold as you stare at the ceiling, you almost smile as you hear your mother sing that lullaby once again. You wonder what your life could have been had you never been locked away, if you were given love instead. The cheers grow farther away. You die alone. You die a monster.
I refuse that fate. I will grip your body… oh how it looks like mine. And drag you to the beach. I will lay you upon the sand. Look at the stars, Asterion. That is where you belong. I will run my fingers through your fur and hum that sweet lullaby. You may rest sweet boy.
There was no moment where the labyrinth collapsed. No hero came for me. What changed was smaller than that, far quieter. I learned that hunger did not have to be obeyed the second it spoke. That I could sit with it. Name it. Refuse to feed it with whatever reached for me first. I began to understand that attention was not the same as love, and desire was not the same as being chosen. I was still starving… but I stopped calling scraps a meal. I stopped eating whatever was thrown at me just to prove I could survive another night. The labyrinth did not disappear; I simply stopped running through it blindly.
I was born on May 10th under the constellation of the Bull. “Miracle” is what my parents named me. I was my father’s miracle at the cost of my own demise. I wore a bull mask to fit the part my parents needed me to play. I am 20 years old now. I have long since taken the bull mask off my head. I no longer apologize for how I survived. I no longer bite my tongue to make others comfortable. I no longer carry shame that was never mine. And I no longer ask for permission to exist. I carry my anger with respect. I carry my vulnerability with softness. And I carry my history without erasing it. I have not healed perfectly. I still pluck flesh from between my teeth at times. But I am no longer a monster. I was born with the name Ayah. Ayah: miracle, gift, & verse in the Quran. So holy and oh so proud. I carry the name with gentleness and pride. I was born to be a miracle. And it truly is a miracle that I have survived.