MELITA
Perhaps Melita had always formed a sense of attachment to those she met and liked. Embraced them fully in her heart, a ferocious little tether and line, radiance and ambience extended in those familiar accords, no questions asked, no insinuations given, ready and eager to defend. Unless another contortion was warranted (like Kiada; a name that blistered and seethed through her mind like a vice, like venom), the girl was eternally grateful and responsive to notions of kindness and benevolence, and aimed to enshroud others in that too – because the world was already cruel enough without all the other twists, turns, and revolutions of animosity. Her light bled through fire and fury, through rapture and delight, sometimes snagged, sometimes snarled, sometimes broken and chipped, but persistent, tenacious, and obstinate, every bit a piercing of her soul. She’d never quite known how to read Nathaniel though; from the minimal interactions, through chorus bees buzzing in her ear, through song and ditties strained, warbled, through her throat. So the girl watched him carefully, unfortunately not saved by his ignorance of knitting either; can’t be too hard bristling through, a laugh on the breeze. Oh, she could make anything difficult, enough impulsive, impetuous designs in her brain to set the world ablaze but not douse it when she was through. “I don’t know him well, no.” It was supposed to be a secret, but if he wasn’t involved with the proceedings, then perhaps it wouldn’t come to harm. “Do you know someone named Peter?” An absent-minded inquisition, while they both sought to unravel what she’d already maimed and damaged, her fingers lightly plucking at leaves assembled and stuck to the granules. Before long, it resumed as a pile along the stone wall again, less cluttered with debris, but still a haphazard display, and she worked on the needles, removing threads and starting again.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
