MELITA
It was the ensconced unknown though, slinking through her fingertips and gnashing at her ichor, calling her back, back, back to the darkness; because the possibilities were there, that it was all in her head, that it was all in her mind, only stirred, only brewed, only concocted and refined into this blighted mess. An excuse for the torment to be restless and invited, uninhibited, released, straight into the darkness and threshold she’d skirted and skimmed along since her birth. She shook her head again, quieted, but it felt fleeting and hopeless; Rexanna’s presence was a god-send, but eventually, it would all be for naught, a twist, a turn, a stitch in time and she’d be right back where she started. Those were sickening thoughts too, and she tried so hard to lean into the Penumbra’s words, to let them scald and soothe and smooth instead of drown her in the abyss of eventual defeat. “I didn’t want to be like this,” she whispered, into shirts and arms, shuddering again, trembling as the cold touched over her once more, pondering the lengths of monster hood and how she’d told Amalia she’d wanted to be a demonic queen, enriched with fangs and power and potential; but in her own void, in control, in venom and vitriol of her own making. That was why she worried that it had all come to this.Maybe this was her. Maybe this was everything she was going to become.
It made her feel sick, reviled, horrified; her stomach tied up in knots. She gasped again, leaning more and more into Rexanna, into those days where her mother would’ve tended and assuaged, a sweet song for her girls when they tripped (usually Melita), when they stumbled (usually Melita), when they erred (usually Melita). “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m still so sorry.”
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
