burn the house down

MELITA

He followed – and she only lingered upon the fathoms, the cool ease of the currents a chilling, vivid dream beneath her; temptation to take off the anklet and dive into the depths was there, but his inquiry caught her short, the tilt of his head, the echo of what felt like lifetimes ago flooding back over her.

And your father? Did you know him?

She’d never thought much about it – their mother hadn’t explained anything. It’d been a silent, unsaid notion, and the youth, despite watching other families interact, had never sought to ask. Perhaps it’d been a taboo topic: a man who’d left, who’d fled, or who’d died, withered and decayed away before they ever had the opportunity to meet him. Maybe her mother felt shame at the notions of a beast who’d disappeared. But not once had she ever looked upon them as a burden – her babes in the fields and meadows, nestled amidst wildflowers, thistles, and thorns, daydreamers and believers, curious and inquisitive, singing her soft songs amidst copses and sand. Would it have made anything better – to have known who he was? Would it have changed anything?

“I don’t know.” The honeybee girl shook her head, reddened locks dangling and tossed, the calculating air in his eyes fixating her on the inquiries, on the questions. Was this Sunjata aware? And how – how could he possibly comprehend the answer, or even bring up the topic, unless he was certain, imploring, invested in a particular outcome? She swallowed down the bile coating her throat. “I had a twin sister. Clementine.” In case this information was pertinent, in case somewhere, someone knew something about two girls, wild and free, one savage, one gentle. Clementine had been like blossoms and ivory, beneficent and compassionate, and Melita had been the opposite, a clamor of the wind, a dusting of fire and smoke. They'd loved one another fiercely, bonded, not broken, not bent, not shorn.

But then, all she could recall was her mother speaking to the vulture-like man along open walls and territories, her face different, and his, gruff and harsh, glancing at the two of them for only a moment.

Then leaving.

Geen but not Geen.

“Mother never said anything about him,” was all she had left, her heart suddenly frenetic, her fingers gripping hold of her staff, the water bounding beneath her limbs and she felt nothing, nothing at all.

help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts