MABEL
Silent, quiet, a living grave with the details of her death plaited, tangled, gnarled, knotted in her hair, she only waited for his permission. Something to do with her hands, something normal, something she understood, something to anchor her down into the floor. Even with his notation of the frayed ends, she bent down and took it gingerly in her fingers, gentle, unearthly, with no need for him to pick it up and place it anywhere. A nod, an understanding, even if it wasn’t clear and precise, and then she left – shutting the door behind her, leaving Aamu to his own devices, means, and requirements.
She thought about bringing a chair outside the enclosure to sit upon and talk through the wooden structure. But then that felt desperate, and Mabel would never admit to the sudden loneliness, the melancholy, flooding over her soul. Her eyes went over the ramparts, the eaves, of the house she knew and understood for her entire life, suffocating in the surrounding emptiness. Like she was down in the water again. Like she was basking on the surface with nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn.
The girl took a breath she didn’t need, and roamed forward, piecing off one of the main proportions of the hallway, and into the kitchen. She fought off her trembling hands, stiffened, stifled, the rage and wage of emotions barreling into her existence, and placed the sewing kit down, rummaging through for matching thread, a slender needle. Only thereafter did she prop herself up on a chair, head bent, the ghosts of yesteryear threatening to flicker over her. How many times had she done this? Mended socks, garments, anything with split ends and unfurling edges? With sisters gathered below her feet? With brothers running around her? With music and laughter in the air? With the weight of the unknown barreling over their shoulders?
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, her cheeks, and found them wet. The salt touched her again, and she snarled at her own stupidity, before gently, painstakingly, mending the tears in the coat, small incisions in something that had seen too much too.
She thought about bringing a chair outside the enclosure to sit upon and talk through the wooden structure. But then that felt desperate, and Mabel would never admit to the sudden loneliness, the melancholy, flooding over her soul. Her eyes went over the ramparts, the eaves, of the house she knew and understood for her entire life, suffocating in the surrounding emptiness. Like she was down in the water again. Like she was basking on the surface with nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn.
The girl took a breath she didn’t need, and roamed forward, piecing off one of the main proportions of the hallway, and into the kitchen. She fought off her trembling hands, stiffened, stifled, the rage and wage of emotions barreling into her existence, and placed the sewing kit down, rummaging through for matching thread, a slender needle. Only thereafter did she prop herself up on a chair, head bent, the ghosts of yesteryear threatening to flicker over her. How many times had she done this? Mended socks, garments, anything with split ends and unfurling edges? With sisters gathered below her feet? With brothers running around her? With music and laughter in the air? With the weight of the unknown barreling over their shoulders?
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, her cheeks, and found them wet. The salt touched her again, and she snarled at her own stupidity, before gently, painstakingly, mending the tears in the coat, small incisions in something that had seen too much too.
I bare my teeth
and stretch my claws out
and stretch my claws out
