MELITA
And just like that, the story snapped into its inevitable turn, a wrinkle on her nose, a downward slide of her gaze, onto the floor, away from the shelving, away from the tools in her hands. What would it have been like, had she lived, had she survived, had none of them plotted and plagued and brooded in their conflagrations? If her father could’ve shut his damned mouth? If the stretch of sedition wasn’t so widespread, if there wasn’t anything to rebel against? Maybe the inquiries didn’t matter, but they still burned their away along the fringes of her thoughts, another apology yearning to be rendered behind her teeth and tongue, but still not to blame in these circumstances either. Arranged marriages thereafter, Gaal’s name on the list too, as if anyone else deserved to be chained, tied, and tethered to an individual unworthy of such a cause. Sometimes she wondered just what her mother had been thinking, to be seduced by such a cretin – but had she not succumbed to him, Melita, Clementine, wouldn’t have been on this earth. Circumstances unraveling, nooses straightening, too many crosshairs curled in the masses – a sigh on her breath, in her lungs, when she finally turned her head back to him. “How did she return here then?” It’d been an inevitable curiosity every time she heard of someone’s resurrection, how their souls embarked back upon these rolling hills, rumored mountains, and stretches of enigmatic copses, groves. How had she managed to live again? And if Lusea had been granted and given another opportunity, however short and insufficient, did that mean others could too? Could her sister? Could her mother? Could any of those sacrificed under Kisamoa’s power and precision be rendered whole? Or were there other things involved, and those little wishes, hopes, and dreams, were naught but something to chase and never catch?
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
