the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
...A father that beats you for breathing...
...a mother that wishes you were never born...
...as he breaks my wrist against our floorboard...
She can feel the air leave her lungs, the anger knocked out of her sails as quickly as it filled them. "I didn't know," she whispers, pleads, begs him to understand. She'd been a child, just like him, blind to the world outside herself. Evie spent so much of her time with them, and Amalia knew she disliked her parents, but she hadn't known, she hadn't known, hadn't seen anything beyond her own damn pain--
It hurts to think that she has failed him, just like the rest of the world. And it hurts to think that he believes her heartless for it, that she would ever have condemned or attacked him. Gritting her teeth, the girl says nothing, letting him spew his accusations and vitriol as the space between them grows dangerously thin until she cannot hold it back, until the fury bursts out again, accompanied by a dry, mirthless laugh: "How in Vi's name is me trying to keep the Voice from poisoning the world even remotely worse than you trying to help her kill it?"
Where once was a friendly, if tentative, truce, now only acid and ire remains.
"I tried to listen," she hisses back softly, staring down with slitted gaze into the slightly shorter man's eyes. "I literally just asked you to explain. But you can't- all any of you ever do is make excuses. Claim she has our best interest at heart, but nobody can tell me what that means, or how it's worth the cost." What guarantee do they have against another blight- or something worse? The word of a liar, an abandoner, a betrayer? The promise of creature with love for nothing but herself?
...a mother that wishes you were never born...
...as he breaks my wrist against our floorboard...
She can feel the air leave her lungs, the anger knocked out of her sails as quickly as it filled them. "I didn't know," she whispers, pleads, begs him to understand. She'd been a child, just like him, blind to the world outside herself. Evie spent so much of her time with them, and Amalia knew she disliked her parents, but she hadn't known, she hadn't known, hadn't seen anything beyond her own damn pain--
It hurts to think that she has failed him, just like the rest of the world. And it hurts to think that he believes her heartless for it, that she would ever have condemned or attacked him. Gritting her teeth, the girl says nothing, letting him spew his accusations and vitriol as the space between them grows dangerously thin until she cannot hold it back, until the fury bursts out again, accompanied by a dry, mirthless laugh: "How in Vi's name is me trying to keep the Voice from poisoning the world even remotely worse than you trying to help her kill it?"
Where once was a friendly, if tentative, truce, now only acid and ire remains.
"I tried to listen," she hisses back softly, staring down with slitted gaze into the slightly shorter man's eyes. "I literally just asked you to explain. But you can't- all any of you ever do is make excuses. Claim she has our best interest at heart, but nobody can tell me what that means, or how it's worth the cost." What guarantee do they have against another blight- or something worse? The word of a liar, an abandoner, a betrayer? The promise of creature with love for nothing but herself?
