MELITA
The words were remarkably similar, a rush, a dash of heartache, though where Amalia’s mother might have pressed, Melita’s had not; quiet and patient, a smile, a laugh, a beatific melody amidst the confusion and obvious disregard for any soothing, assuaging abilities. Had she been given enough time, it might have happened – but her mother had always been the sort of individual too gentle and too easygoing to bristle or grate upon her daughters, loved them as they were, no matter how foolish or silly. “I taught myself to fight. Do you have any weapons?” She twisted her head around to face the baker again, the blistering smile on her face promising fangs and monstrous intentions, impish and wild; somewhat proud, somewhat convinced in her voracious, vehement convictions. “It wasn’t much. But I had to defend my sister and my friends.” She shrugged, as if she hadn’t been a damned, bestial little shield in the plights of the world, covering Clementine’s frame with her own as lightning scorched and rankled down her back, as ghosts threatened to consume and destroy them all. “My mother sacrificed herself for us.” Then her eyes dropped, back to her basket with its devilish contortions, never quite away from those bestial, barbaric qualities surging through her skin.But then they were back to fiends and heathens - be the bigger one - a clamor in her brain, and she immersed herself into the mirth instead of the melancholy, yearning to burst from those terrible, treacherous intonations, to stretch her limbs, her hands, her fingers, her toes, into delight. “I always wanted to be a monster,” she declared, uncertain of which venue to press, uncertain of how large the dream, the wish, the inspiration would grow: “So the rest would be too afraid of me, so they’d never come after anyone I cherished.” The hope was in her eyes, in her smile, in the beats of savagery underlined and coating her soul, her essence, her presence. Amalia’s laughter was rich and poured off the distant clouds and the unholy discourse, and the girl hungered to become part of the wilderness again. “Demon queens sound perfect.” Her voice was a hum, a reverent croon shaped out of upheaval and insurrection; because monsters had claws and so did she.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
