MELITA
There were always going to be worlds cornered and covered in desecration and disaster; but it didn’t mean corruption was paramount. It was the choices one made in life – just as she’d done, over and over and over again, losing modicums of innocence amidst depravity and terror, aiming to squander anarchy and arming herself with sedition because it meant keeping those she loved safe. Sunjata had challenged Gaal to do the same – a cherished sister, not meant to be sequestered and locked away with a vulture. Would she have been unhappy? Would he have altered or changed himself for her? The past was the past, but the stories repeated in refrains – could anyone have warned her mother, gentle and kind, about the brute with the charismatic tongue and the well-spun lies? Or was she doomed, just as the scores of other women? The girl’s eyes narrowed, careful perusal and study of the man who fought her father, who thought to cover them in blood, in ashes, in bones, broken pieces of enamel, ripped apart for victory, for triumph, for evasion, for escape. Would Graasvoel have cared if she left of her own volition? The series of inquiries had no answers, no particular meanings except intrigue, a youth lost in the tidal waves of conclusions and revelations – so she didn’t voice them, not for now, as he shrugged, as steel met fire. He could have been a good man. They could’ve all been good. Did anyone arrive into the world evil and vile? Didn’t they grow into it, from experiences, from devastation, from ruin, or from virtue, rising to paragon status?
So if she never knew Gaal – was the fire and fury sizzling and smoldering in her ichor, simply her own? No one else to blame for its vitriol but herself?
As she considered this, her gaze settled on him, trying to piece together lives wrapped up in shards of insurrection, ones beyond the Rift, worlds apart. “Do you know if anyone else from your kingdom lives here?” Because if there was a whole other set of family members – then she wasn’t truly alone…and it gave her some pause, some cause, to search across the vast plains and the ancient forests. “There were several from Helovia, like Kiada,” but the name slipping between her teeth was bitter and rancorous, etched in abhorrence and belligerence; ferocity entangled amidst brutality, munitions for munitions, no forgiveness lined in their chambers.
But her grin reappeared on the notion of devilish devices, and she sidled closer at his encouragement, a fluid balance along the water, until she crossed her legs near him, leaning forward, as if she were poised to strike. Instead, with the staff across her lap, she was merely imploring, excited, exuberant, for the potential of follies and mayhem. She listened to the chuckles, to the way he pronounced, strived to shape her mouth the way he had. “Fok jou,” she repeated, giggling, gilded gaze rising to the sky. It probably didn’t sound quite correct, remembering the deeper intervals of Gaal’s tone, but she tried to embody the movements and motions as best she could. “Stukkie kak Vader,” was melded and molded with more emphasis, laughter springing across her tongue in following, beckoning waves. “Hoer.” Then the honeybee lingered backwards, practicing the airs for her rehearsal. “Fok jou hoer stukkie kak Vader." The embellished smile thereafter was proud, superior, and smug, as if she’d just recited a blessed anthem. Then her gaze swung directly back to his. “What else?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
