MELITA
Forced discussions, embellishments of romance, faces of rebellion and twisted truths; Melita wondered just what she’d missed while on the other side of the world, exploring caverns and sea beds, then struggling to fight for her life, amongst scores of others. Perhaps things weren’t so different – more politically driven, but human nature still the same, ridiculous, asinine, seeking out hope and vengeance where it best could. She smiled at the notions of defected nobles and slum daughters with their woven tapestry of love and benediction, but it was quick and fleeting, because she knew in the end it didn’t last – and that in itself was heartbreaking. Then takedowns, a shift of her shoulders as she worked, listening, listening, listening – and then her damn father.
Which only served to show that he’d really never done much good in his life. “I’m sorry,” on repeat and refrain, for she could feel the curve of something pending and ominous, a weight born of death and desecration, of her idiotic bloodline tracing their way through oblivion and ruin. Gaal would’ve never apologized. Gaal would’ve never regretted. She swallowed down the suffocating bile threatening to rampage along her throat, thought about hanging her head in shame; out of her control, never in the midst of all this, never even a thought, a blip, on Gaal’s radar – but it was sickening to think she’d been brought partly into this world because of someone like that; and maybe it was right to always strive and escape his aura.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
