MELITA
A hiss extended through her as his fist came into her ribcage, and then some manner of vitriol passed through in the resounding assault thereafter – punching, fists flying, leveling a matter of speed and concentration through gnarled growls and gnashing teeth. His words didn’t even really ricochet or bound upon her until moments after, as if they’d been desperate to catch up with the rest of her brain (the seething and snarling proportions seemingly an endless bounty, and the rational ones striving to follow). She paused, brows not furrowed or deepening into a scowl, but flaring, flickering, in an art of consideration.“I’m not much of a caretaker, or a healer.” Those had been her mother and her sister’s roles. Gathering herbs through honeysuckle and wildflower fields while she bristled and tried to understand which leaves and stems and stalks were for what – content to hang them, watch them dry, pluck at the vegetation when her mother wasn’t looking. But it’d never piqued her interest the way action and vengeance had, the way vehemence lingered in her bones, scraped against the enamel, poised aloft in her frenetic brain. Clementine and her mother had been gentle, kind, and compassionate – and sometimes Melita could only be one of those things. Sometimes she couldn’t be any. “What would I need to do?”
Because she longed for so many places too.
She didn’t even attack this time, the balled fists coming to rest at her sides, head tilted, the curiosity building to a enigmatic front.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
