Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear
The silence went on and on, a series of events and circumstances in between those unsaid nuances. She offered nothing but her residual stare at first, and had she contained a chin in this form, it would’ve been jutted forward. Instead, she watched and waited, hesitant and stubborn, used to fending for herself in range of emotions (until they were nothing, of course, crushed and mauled, suppressed and diminished, or they flickered and drowned – like fire, like water).
Had he not been bothered by the fire? By the way the Sparkbird had sent everything into flames? By the way they could’ve been encased in the same inferno amongst the barracks, eaten and consumed, swept away into nothing? By the certainty of death? To have been sent out into this world again, only to be snuffed out soon after?
Resurrected as she was, reborn and renewed and scraping, clawing her way out into the wilderness, Mabel was too greedy, too avaricious, to give herself to demise so soon. Not now. Not again. There were too many other things to do. Too much hatred to expel.
She couldn’t tell what the purpose of the water was, but she strayed from its contents, brushing through misty grass and moonlight. The barrows might have been elegiac, enigmatic, and eerie, but so was he. So was she. So was the potential for this pending conversation. Do you?
Or could he maintain indifference? And how?
Had he not been bothered by the fire? By the way the Sparkbird had sent everything into flames? By the way they could’ve been encased in the same inferno amongst the barracks, eaten and consumed, swept away into nothing? By the certainty of death? To have been sent out into this world again, only to be snuffed out soon after?
Resurrected as she was, reborn and renewed and scraping, clawing her way out into the wilderness, Mabel was too greedy, too avaricious, to give herself to demise so soon. Not now. Not again. There were too many other things to do. Too much hatred to expel.
She couldn’t tell what the purpose of the water was, but she strayed from its contents, brushing through misty grass and moonlight. The barrows might have been elegiac, enigmatic, and eerie, but so was he. So was she. So was the potential for this pending conversation. Do you?
Or could he maintain indifference? And how?
MABEL
