MELITA
Did Wessex know Melita hadn’t meant to be awful, to be a ruin, a savage, upon this society? Because something in her heart told her she’d been wicked, and damned to conduct it again, lost in the acrimony, in the vicious, unwinding cycle, of darker fathoms returning to take her away. She rubbed the blighted-remnants of tears off her cheeks, eyes glancing at the Stygian stains on her hands now too, shaking her head, longing for complete, utter clarity that wouldn’t come. She couldn’t even chase that. At his next set of words, her gaze swung back to the rose, to its thorns, and her frame rankled, ground into her soul, threatened to tear things apart again. It was an urgency, to destroy, to rampage, to devastate, to be one more guardian of disease and pestilence, instead of what truly mattered – she’d never wanted to be this way, a monster with no control, with no composure, feral and foul. “Go,” she nodded, taking in his convictions with little flare. He’d have to leave before she found herself back in the taut contortions of the blight’s perilous insistence again, before her hands and fingers and claws could sink into stems and snap them apart. “Thank you,” she whispered, ducking her head, lost and lost.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
