MABEL
Maybe she was frost and ice, frozen down deep into her entity, waiting for something else to pierce and slide. Maybe Mabel was nothing at all, and this had been a mistake – the determination flickering now and again, twisting and turning like a fractured, splintered puzzle. The ends never quite aligning. Nothing matching.
And try as she might, the results of her ongoing wanderings had amounted with little to naught. No Evelyn. No evidence of her existence.
And wasn’t that what she feared the most? That she’d dragged herself out of death’s ramparts, followed voices and lines, tethers and bouts, for a sibling she couldn’t find?
And then what? What was to come next?
She’d heard the Wraith’s call earlier, while mending her clothes. While striking against the echoes of the past. While trying to raise her head over the onslaught tearing through her heart. She hadn’t thought about the predilections long; tired, perhaps, of all the nuances and notions she’d walked right back into. Several remarks curled over her mind, in between the hours where she cared to drift away from the possibilities of Evelyn’s whereabouts. She wouldn’t be fighting. She’d be keeping to herself. She’d get stronger.
Thereafter, Mabel wasn’t so certain.
So the call into the still evening wasn’t a surprise, and she loomed on the edge of her farmhouse door, the creak of the wood revealing her stance, her crossed arms. Mostly to protect herself, a shield against some incoming, ominous storm. Why had Wessex appeared at all? The machinations haunted and devised, and not a single one prevailed in positivity. “I’m here.” No inflection, no emotion – cold and frigid, the uncertainty bristling against her.
And try as she might, the results of her ongoing wanderings had amounted with little to naught. No Evelyn. No evidence of her existence.
And wasn’t that what she feared the most? That she’d dragged herself out of death’s ramparts, followed voices and lines, tethers and bouts, for a sibling she couldn’t find?
And then what? What was to come next?
She’d heard the Wraith’s call earlier, while mending her clothes. While striking against the echoes of the past. While trying to raise her head over the onslaught tearing through her heart. She hadn’t thought about the predilections long; tired, perhaps, of all the nuances and notions she’d walked right back into. Several remarks curled over her mind, in between the hours where she cared to drift away from the possibilities of Evelyn’s whereabouts. She wouldn’t be fighting. She’d be keeping to herself. She’d get stronger.
Thereafter, Mabel wasn’t so certain.
So the call into the still evening wasn’t a surprise, and she loomed on the edge of her farmhouse door, the creak of the wood revealing her stance, her crossed arms. Mostly to protect herself, a shield against some incoming, ominous storm. Why had Wessex appeared at all? The machinations haunted and devised, and not a single one prevailed in positivity. “I’m here.” No inflection, no emotion – cold and frigid, the uncertainty bristling against her.
I bare my teeth
and stretch my claws out
and stretch my claws out
