throwing rocks at a glass house

MELITA

The blight had a heady sensation of simply barreling and bombarding; no thought process, no plotting, no Machiavellian designs, just savagery, just nefariousness, just a beckoning hand into her savage qualities. When Wessex didn’t leave, when she didn’t balk, when she simply maneuvered (quickly, efficiently, and something in Melita’s head rang from the familiarity of it), the youth grabbed hold of her rocks once again, intending to throw, to pummel, to continue her patterns.

The expectations, the volleys, were quickly disengaged when she lost all control (or the semblance, the remains of it) of her frame, a trembling conjecture, disoriented, dizzy, staring at the ground as it swam beneath her. “What?” She managed to mumble, her eyes suddenly rolling; she shook her head, striving to get some instance of reality to curve into her sights.

That didn’t matter either.

Suddenly it was just a wall of fabric in her features, scathing over her figure, and no matter how she reeled, flailed, her arms wild and chaotic, she couldn’t get the garment off, she couldn’t do anything, and she uttered a string of curses, growls, and howls, hissing against the refrains.

The prick of the rose went unnoticed at first, with all the confusion, the bewilderment, the frenetic, bedlam energy searing and seething, Fangorn’s outcries hustling into her ears. A moment later though, Melita stilled, quiet, breathing rushed and unsteady, struggling to understand, to comprehend, what was going on. In her house one moment, and gone the next, beneath cloaks and fixtures, somewhere in a basement, everything cold and worn and stark. Gods, she was tired. Her hands still shook and shuddered, and her knees had long since gave way, sitting on the floor, under all the irreverence and shame. “Wessex?” She called out, a whisper in mounds of mantle, uncertain what she’d done or how far she’d clambered or how wide she’d created a fissure, a rift.

help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts