MABEL
She didn’t wander quite so often now; steps filled with purpose, with prowess, with predilection, rather than the willowy embrace of nothingness. No longer immersed in the haze of rebirth, renewal, and resurgence, no longer trapped in her threadbare clothing and contorted in salt from the sea, no longer shrouded in her death-veils – her mind rewiring, refiring, into necessities. Into willpower. Into vestiges of revenge that would take far longer than she wanted or craved. Into motivation, goals, and ambitions for after the stretch of LongNight – as if that could be quantified or put into words.
As if they had a chance.
Her hands were full of necessities for the farmhouse, for what she figured Aamu required, as if one more evening in the bewitching clarity of normalcy might make it through, might set minds and hearts at ease. The youth’s head was up, and her predacious eyes scanned the darkened folds, the press of shadows, wayward from the beams of lantern light, when she caught the motion of smoke from the corner of her eye. Her initial instinct was fire, and a clamorous hum began to rankle within her heart, until she realized the figure was someone she recognized, and there were no ember, save for the cigarette.
A snort billowed through her, and she rolled her eyes – uncertain at who.
His voice pierced though, punctured right through her spine at the inclination, at the words, and every bone in her body stilled.
Predator, monster, molten little beast again, abomination from her watery crypt. “She’s dead,” came out in a hiss, a warning, her fingers ghosting towards the precious knife in her pockets.
As if they had a chance.
Her hands were full of necessities for the farmhouse, for what she figured Aamu required, as if one more evening in the bewitching clarity of normalcy might make it through, might set minds and hearts at ease. The youth’s head was up, and her predacious eyes scanned the darkened folds, the press of shadows, wayward from the beams of lantern light, when she caught the motion of smoke from the corner of her eye. Her initial instinct was fire, and a clamorous hum began to rankle within her heart, until she realized the figure was someone she recognized, and there were no ember, save for the cigarette.
A snort billowed through her, and she rolled her eyes – uncertain at who.
His voice pierced though, punctured right through her spine at the inclination, at the words, and every bone in her body stilled.
Predator, monster, molten little beast again, abomination from her watery crypt. “She’s dead,” came out in a hiss, a warning, her fingers ghosting towards the precious knife in her pockets.
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
