MELITA
For some reason, being able to outrun the man, made her laugh, made her sputter with some idiotic, manic glee. She giggled from her tower, from her canopy, from her boughs, wrath and savage exuberance rapaciously drowning her lungs. Her eyes, gilded and gold and ignited with fever, eyed the rose on his belt, but said nothing on its front, on its existence – hands could reach to grab later, to snag, to obliterate.She chuckled again at his voice, kind and thoughtful when she didn’t have the ability to understand or comprehend what it was like to be compassionate – not now, not anymore. Her gaze flicked back upon him, and in some singsong mime, she mocked, she chided, she sneered; any grins turning devilish and irreverent, phantoms of sweetness and beneficence disappeared in the ether of disease. “Miss, are you alright?” Complete with a turn of her head and shaking curls, snicker turning into a dour frown. His gesture might have been placating, but hers was not, nearly hanging off the side of her chosen branch with a snake-grip, asp and viper when she’d only ever wanted to be powerful enough to stop those daring to hurt her friends.
Perhaps, his answer would come then as blackened blood began to drain out of her nose, steadily maneuvering downward, stark and vivid on her pale features, a wry cackle bursting from her throat.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
