every time she burns to ashes
To her surprise, he acquiesced without a word, and the hurt, the anguish, while still there, softened a little through her jaw. She knew he hadn’t meant it, but the juncture, the puncture, still wove its way around her heart; as if he’d known exactly where to hit. Not in her other failures, not in the way she couldn’t quite enact vengeance, not in the way she’d been weak, forlorn, or simply stupid, but in the aspects she’d never be able to control. Her father wasn’t an existence she could erase, no matter how much she wanted to; without him she wouldn’t have been there, nor would Clementine have taken any gentle, loving, tender breaths, taught her twin compassion when everything else wanted to shift into cinders and ash. She owed the bestial man absolutely nothing – but he still hung around her like a noose, a reminder of not being wanted.
Of being abandoned.
Of not being enough for someone who didn’t matter at all, and wondering why that still stung.
She made no movement towards him at first, eyes taking in the way he hid, striving to blend into the darkness, shifting into someone she didn’t recognize. “Sorry,” she murmured, eventually following, footsteps light and soft, struggling and striving not to disturb. “But I hate him. And you know that.” Her hands drew a chair, lifting it from the floor and over to sit beside the bed, curling beside him on its wooden surface, the picture of a guardian; an irate, irritated one, but a shelter and sanctuary nonetheless.
Of being abandoned.
Of not being enough for someone who didn’t matter at all, and wondering why that still stung.
She made no movement towards him at first, eyes taking in the way he hid, striving to blend into the darkness, shifting into someone she didn’t recognize. “Sorry,” she murmured, eventually following, footsteps light and soft, struggling and striving not to disturb. “But I hate him. And you know that.” Her hands drew a chair, lifting it from the floor and over to sit beside the bed, curling beside him on its wooden surface, the picture of a guardian; an irate, irritated one, but a shelter and sanctuary nonetheless.
she knows how to rise again
Melita
