Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
“You’re welcome,” she echoed back, quiet and forlorn, perhaps far more hushed than she’d been in lifetimes. With her head bowed, eyes inscrutable and hardly any embers to them at all, the youth looked over the items: the glass in her palm, the gloves that were so ridiculous that she should’ve laughed. Maybe she’d gift them to Kamaria, watch the chaos ensue.
Then she backed away, enough to give Ronin a firm pat on the arm, because that was all she had left in her for now. No amount of comfort or assurance would’ve done the matter justice anyway. “Thank you again,” and she waved to the man, before sauntering out from whence she’d come, to inevitably crawl her way back to Torchline, feeding over the inward wounds where there were no outwards ones to placate.
Then she backed away, enough to give Ronin a firm pat on the arm, because that was all she had left in her for now. No amount of comfort or assurance would’ve done the matter justice anyway. “Thank you again,” and she waved to the man, before sauntering out from whence she’d come, to inevitably crawl her way back to Torchline, feeding over the inward wounds where there were no outwards ones to placate.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
