All expectations make her heart feel numb
Her eyes glanced down at another page, and when there was no blasphemy, no diction of cruel entities, she turned to the next, fingers sliding down, down, down over words and phrases. Thereafter were more, more, more, and then her digits gripped and pulled like little claws and little knives and little ventures of hatred, curling and coiling into the nuances of slashing things apart. Even if it was just a book. Even if it was just opinioned fathoms from one fiend to the rest. They wouldn’t be seen again – and in one some part, some way, that was triumph.
The dominion of her gaze remained on the tome she mishandled as they spoke, her head tilting a fraction, indicating listening, the flickers of speech flowing through the brine and gallows. Even if Ophelia knew naught of those demolitions, there were many ways they could be taught, they could learn, they could see. And Mabel curled a smirk within, bare bones and skeletal fixtures. “Power and revenge are all I want.” And if she said it enough times, maybe the notions would come true. Maybe she could unfold and immerse and rampage until there was naught left but the promises of vengeance she’d made in their wake. I told you she could serenade through blood-soaked stilettos and gnashing teeth.
But fears? There were plenty of those. Her gaze slipped away from the book and fully onto the floor, surrounded by more tomes, more dialects, more future ruin. “There is always death. I fear that.” But only because she knew it intimately.
The dominion of her gaze remained on the tome she mishandled as they spoke, her head tilting a fraction, indicating listening, the flickers of speech flowing through the brine and gallows. Even if Ophelia knew naught of those demolitions, there were many ways they could be taught, they could learn, they could see. And Mabel curled a smirk within, bare bones and skeletal fixtures. “Power and revenge are all I want.” And if she said it enough times, maybe the notions would come true. Maybe she could unfold and immerse and rampage until there was naught left but the promises of vengeance she’d made in their wake. I told you she could serenade through blood-soaked stilettos and gnashing teeth.
But fears? There were plenty of those. Her gaze slipped away from the book and fully onto the floor, surrounded by more tomes, more dialects, more future ruin. “There is always death. I fear that.” But only because she knew it intimately.
MABEL
