MABEL
Was it all right? Probably not. They’d been immersed into another playing field; and the measures were indistinct, blurry, hazy, murky. And she was sorry that she didn’t have more information, that she’d been gone too. She shrugged to alleviate the weight from both of them, nowhere else to go, nothing else to do or say in these bizarre increments and emotions. Then she was wraithlike again, nodding at Aamu’s accord and willingness to help, despite knowing she probably wouldn’t ask.
She advanced towards the bathroom again, trepidation in steps and movements, clicking the door shut behind her, ushering an unnecessary sigh. The bucket in her hands, dust free only from the movement of her palms and fingers, was meant to dip into the tub, to grab hold of the water in a more manageable aspect. The youth stared down into the surface and cringed; trembling limbs extended to smother it into the liquid, listening to fill and flow while she shook and shuddered.
And promptly drained the rest.
Watching it flow down the drain was enough to appease her for another stretch of instances, and then she stripped, placing the threadbare rags on the floor, to discern and dispose of later. From then on, she found a rag, and stepped into the empty tub, cleaned without the fear of drowning, without the notion of tumbling amidst their waves and wares.
Eventually, the salt desisted and faded from her body, from her hair – but not memories. And perhaps that was what she’d have to endure, have to fathom, have to overcome. Remnants of yesteryear flickered down, down, down, and they were gone.
She left them within the resin, for later, stepping out to redress in the clothes she’d found earlier. Maybe anew. Maybe refreshed. Maybe not a witch of the sea, tossed until she’d been truly condemned.
And only thereafter, did she step back out into the farmhouse, uncertain of how much time had passed, stepping lightly over the cracks and surfaces.
She advanced towards the bathroom again, trepidation in steps and movements, clicking the door shut behind her, ushering an unnecessary sigh. The bucket in her hands, dust free only from the movement of her palms and fingers, was meant to dip into the tub, to grab hold of the water in a more manageable aspect. The youth stared down into the surface and cringed; trembling limbs extended to smother it into the liquid, listening to fill and flow while she shook and shuddered.
And promptly drained the rest.
Watching it flow down the drain was enough to appease her for another stretch of instances, and then she stripped, placing the threadbare rags on the floor, to discern and dispose of later. From then on, she found a rag, and stepped into the empty tub, cleaned without the fear of drowning, without the notion of tumbling amidst their waves and wares.
Eventually, the salt desisted and faded from her body, from her hair – but not memories. And perhaps that was what she’d have to endure, have to fathom, have to overcome. Remnants of yesteryear flickered down, down, down, and they were gone.
She left them within the resin, for later, stepping out to redress in the clothes she’d found earlier. Maybe anew. Maybe refreshed. Maybe not a witch of the sea, tossed until she’d been truly condemned.
And only thereafter, did she step back out into the farmhouse, uncertain of how much time had passed, stepping lightly over the cracks and surfaces.
I bare my teeth
and stretch my claws out
and stretch my claws out
