MABEL
Aamu gave her nothing to rail against – no frustration, no sentiments, no misgivings, no sorrow-filled pitfalls she’d heard a thousand times before. I’m so sorry for your loss they’d all say at the latest funeral, when they’d buried their younger siblings, or their mother, their father. Until it was just them. And she wasn’t sure if she was grateful for the lack of well wishes, for the falsehoods flown out when everyone was uncomfortable, uncertain what to do with grief. Hers was anger. Hers was justice. Hers was vengeance. And if she pushed into those voids, into those canals, then there wouldn’t be time to fall apart.
But she still eyed him suspiciously when her dagger wasn’t given back – a bit like a wounded animal – ready to spring, ready to bite, ready to unleash some feral, unhinged escape.
And instead of permitting her to peel off into her contemptuous-lined anguish, he showed her, channeled the angles and wrath into something worth savoring.
No one had done that before.
Her eyes widened, surprise registering amidst the other emotions, the unease, the restlessness, the pouring of shaking limbs and trembling hands, pooling, cooling, into other layers. Her mind had to work into other modes instead of just piercing edges, and she found herself listening, tilting her head, studying the way he balanced, bent, threw, and strived to teach her. A series of questions meandered on her tongue, but she didn’t give them voice, not yet. Mabel didn’t want to send him off into the rest of the hollowed abyss just yet.
She was guided, arm motioning not of its own volition, until she began to do it on her own. “What do I use instead?” The youth had only ever had pocketknives; no farmgirl was worth anything without one. And at his insistence, she ambled towards a lonesome tree yawning out of the ruins, the roots twisted and crawling over long since extinguished stones. It was wide enough in her opinion, and she kept the knife tucked in her palm, standing before its expanse.
Imagining damnation, allowing it to flicker and flow through her withering heart. Reminded of his movements, she strived for the same, and witnessed as her volley sent it skittering into the base of the tree with an audible thunk.
But she still eyed him suspiciously when her dagger wasn’t given back – a bit like a wounded animal – ready to spring, ready to bite, ready to unleash some feral, unhinged escape.
And instead of permitting her to peel off into her contemptuous-lined anguish, he showed her, channeled the angles and wrath into something worth savoring.
No one had done that before.
Her eyes widened, surprise registering amidst the other emotions, the unease, the restlessness, the pouring of shaking limbs and trembling hands, pooling, cooling, into other layers. Her mind had to work into other modes instead of just piercing edges, and she found herself listening, tilting her head, studying the way he balanced, bent, threw, and strived to teach her. A series of questions meandered on her tongue, but she didn’t give them voice, not yet. Mabel didn’t want to send him off into the rest of the hollowed abyss just yet.
She was guided, arm motioning not of its own volition, until she began to do it on her own. “What do I use instead?” The youth had only ever had pocketknives; no farmgirl was worth anything without one. And at his insistence, she ambled towards a lonesome tree yawning out of the ruins, the roots twisted and crawling over long since extinguished stones. It was wide enough in her opinion, and she kept the knife tucked in her palm, standing before its expanse.
Imagining damnation, allowing it to flicker and flow through her withering heart. Reminded of his movements, she strived for the same, and witnessed as her volley sent it skittering into the base of the tree with an audible thunk.
If you dig under my feet
You will find things that you don't want to see
You will find things that you don't want to see
