Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Melita pondered then if it mattered what Sunjata tried, strived, or learned. In the end, if everyone always flocked back to him, gave him what he wanted, accepted the constant acts of stupidity and selfishness, would it all amount to nothing? Would he grow? Would he become proficient in anything? Or would the cycle continue – because there’d never really been any consequences? “Are you sacrificing yourself too then?” Her words weren’t delicate – never had been. But Nate deserved far better than sticking it out with her uncle, if it meant simply burying his head in the sand and permitting it to happen over and over and over again. “You can support him by setting up some boundaries. This wasn’t okay. You don’t have to be all right with it.” Maybe she was beating herself into a wall over here too – and she’d eventually watch them all clamber and slide back together. "If you keep tolerating it, won't he just keep doing the same old shit?"
Nothing amiss. Nothing broken. Nothing repaired. A band-aid over lacerations and open, gaping wounds.
She drifted along the stream, her bare feet clinging to the pebbles, eyes wishing to find the gold that seemed so lost now. Simpler ventures and times, beyond fractures and rifts, where the journey hadn’t felt so rough, so barren, so desolate. Her hands balled back into fists, fingers tugging at the fabric of her dress, Fangorn grumbling beside her – naught was enough to settle the adornments of vehemence careening through her. Her eyes narrowed while she looked down, at the inquiry, at the question, at the way everything seemed purposefully muted and torn. “It was the one I always went to. Always seemed willing to help.” The honeybee didn’t ask him about the Voice. She’d heard enough once, from Samuel, about a decision that ultimately hadn’t truly been his.
The way he couldn’t go back.
Instead, she hovered over the abyss, and wondered about falling. “What made you want to become a demigod for her?”
Nothing amiss. Nothing broken. Nothing repaired. A band-aid over lacerations and open, gaping wounds.
She drifted along the stream, her bare feet clinging to the pebbles, eyes wishing to find the gold that seemed so lost now. Simpler ventures and times, beyond fractures and rifts, where the journey hadn’t felt so rough, so barren, so desolate. Her hands balled back into fists, fingers tugging at the fabric of her dress, Fangorn grumbling beside her – naught was enough to settle the adornments of vehemence careening through her. Her eyes narrowed while she looked down, at the inquiry, at the question, at the way everything seemed purposefully muted and torn. “It was the one I always went to. Always seemed willing to help.” The honeybee didn’t ask him about the Voice. She’d heard enough once, from Samuel, about a decision that ultimately hadn’t truly been his.
The way he couldn’t go back.
Instead, she hovered over the abyss, and wondered about falling. “What made you want to become a demigod for her?”
Melita
