"So I guess I'm getting arrested."
Amalia sits in Deimos' kitchen, having arrived with little fanfare- just the letter clasped in her hand. The letter which now sits in the middle of the table, taunting her with its appealing scent and repetitive language, a bizarre bastardization of something that should be beautiful into caricature and infamy. She had spent a long time staring at it, reading and re-reading, as though the words might change, as though if only she scrutinized enough something reasonable and sensible might take shape.
But theirs is a nonsensical world. Once Amalia understood it, could see the logic and patterns of the home she inhabited. It was wild, and wondrous, and monstrous at times, but still it was hers: she knew it, loved it, belonged within. Now, though? Now her world is theirs, and Amalia does not know her place, how to survive in a place that has become hostile to those who wish only to give it life. Her shoulders slumped, her head bowed down, the girl is a picture of resignation, exhaustion, Atlas collapsed beneath his weight, voiceless, expressionless, small.
Is this to be her life, now? Is she to be thwarted and knocked aside every time she tries, punished for simply attempting to maintain some small semblance of order and beauty in the world? Sitting in Deimos' kitchen, Amalia wonders if perhaps the answer is to simply give in. Perhaps she ought to surrender herself, protect the ones she loves from persecution, from the fallout of her good intentions, the desolation of her mistakes. Oh, she could run, but then what? How long until Zariah came looking for her here, began to cut down those she loved in an attempt to flush her out? Amalia is not strong enough to let others bear her burden: she would break and fall were they faced with danger, give in and give up, given the smallest threat.
She is not strong enough for any of this. Perhaps she never was.
Amalia sits in Deimos' kitchen, having arrived with little fanfare- just the letter clasped in her hand. The letter which now sits in the middle of the table, taunting her with its appealing scent and repetitive language, a bizarre bastardization of something that should be beautiful into caricature and infamy. She had spent a long time staring at it, reading and re-reading, as though the words might change, as though if only she scrutinized enough something reasonable and sensible might take shape.
But theirs is a nonsensical world. Once Amalia understood it, could see the logic and patterns of the home she inhabited. It was wild, and wondrous, and monstrous at times, but still it was hers: she knew it, loved it, belonged within. Now, though? Now her world is theirs, and Amalia does not know her place, how to survive in a place that has become hostile to those who wish only to give it life. Her shoulders slumped, her head bowed down, the girl is a picture of resignation, exhaustion, Atlas collapsed beneath his weight, voiceless, expressionless, small.
Is this to be her life, now? Is she to be thwarted and knocked aside every time she tries, punished for simply attempting to maintain some small semblance of order and beauty in the world? Sitting in Deimos' kitchen, Amalia wonders if perhaps the answer is to simply give in. Perhaps she ought to surrender herself, protect the ones she loves from persecution, from the fallout of her good intentions, the desolation of her mistakes. Oh, she could run, but then what? How long until Zariah came looking for her here, began to cut down those she loved in an attempt to flush her out? Amalia is not strong enough to let others bear her burden: she would break and fall were they faced with danger, give in and give up, given the smallest threat.
She is not strong enough for any of this. Perhaps she never was.
Amalia & Jyoti
WE MIGHT BE HOLLOW, BUT WE'RE BRAVE
