All expectations make her heart feel numb
Natural camaraderie didn’t come easy to her. Awkward and stilted, once dead and now renewed, she was a static crackle of stubborn vivacity and eldritch combinations; listless one moment, and deadly the next. She didn’t have her sister there any longer to bounce off of, to wax and wane in the chaos; and now and then she was aloof, quiet, content to bask in her anger and whatever else came along. The inquiries, as she knelt, and then sat, bolstered, until Mabel figured she had to answer, rather than extend the awkward silence. “Two years,” and though she’d lost some of that time spent in the sea, and then her soul gone to another plain – she was here now.
The name curled in the back of her mind though, and her brows furrowed again at the thought, but she didn’t mention it. Maybe the title had come from a long lineage of farmers who struggled their way through the sad, pathetic, desolate lands; toiling and toiling and toiling with little to show. It was the pattern of her own family, dedicated until they perished and died. The question lilted there, half-frozen on her tongue, but it didn’t stay long enough.
Too distracted, too deterred, by Ophelia’s blasphemy upon the books.
She gasped as the page was ripped out – bizarre, perhaps, to have never thought about doing the same. Tomes had once been sacred things, places to drive her sentiments and semblances into. To desecrate one shocked her – even in the midst of all her vengeful tactics. She tried to cover it up by glancing at the book itself, by glancing at the page with all its slander. Reaching, somewhat bolstered and encouraged by sedition, she grabbed hold of another tome, parsing through the content quickly, efficiently, before snickering, and tearing one asunder too, balling the paper up in between her fists. “What would you write?”
The name curled in the back of her mind though, and her brows furrowed again at the thought, but she didn’t mention it. Maybe the title had come from a long lineage of farmers who struggled their way through the sad, pathetic, desolate lands; toiling and toiling and toiling with little to show. It was the pattern of her own family, dedicated until they perished and died. The question lilted there, half-frozen on her tongue, but it didn’t stay long enough.
Too distracted, too deterred, by Ophelia’s blasphemy upon the books.
She gasped as the page was ripped out – bizarre, perhaps, to have never thought about doing the same. Tomes had once been sacred things, places to drive her sentiments and semblances into. To desecrate one shocked her – even in the midst of all her vengeful tactics. She tried to cover it up by glancing at the book itself, by glancing at the page with all its slander. Reaching, somewhat bolstered and encouraged by sedition, she grabbed hold of another tome, parsing through the content quickly, efficiently, before snickering, and tearing one asunder too, balling the paper up in between her fists. “What would you write?”
MABEL
