we're all stories unfinished and we die to find some fitting words to write
The accusation flung at her - becoming the very thing she sought to destroy - has become a parasitic worry, something that wormed its way in through her ears, crawling into a particularly tight cranny in her brain and waiting, waiting, waiting. A pulse there are the toxin surges and it grows, a flutter here as it morphs, unseen, a phantom to others but fully alive in the constructed monstrosities of LongNight.
Something loathed.
Something to be eliminated.
Something that destroys - more than a weapon, somehow. More than a General and a Queen. A warning to babies and naughty children.
Is it possible to pack all that into a single gaze? Probably not. The inklings of despair at her eventual fate darken the corners of her eyes, but as she looks at Ru there is also the telltale sign of something stronger - something that wants to emerge and shake itself free of the worry.
Pressing her cheek onto one Ru’s palms, she listens and denies and agrees in micromovements. And when her friend tells her that she is good, Wessex has to laugh, because it seems like such a jump to go from ‘not a Monster’ to good. “If you knew me before, you might not say that. I was harder before you all came. An outcast, a thief, and a killer. I’m not good, but I am a survivor.” Sighing, Wessex looks down as Ru’s hand falls away. “You’re right though, I’m not a Monster with a capital M. Sometimes I think it might be easier for everyone if I were.”
Something loathed.
Something to be eliminated.
Something that destroys - more than a weapon, somehow. More than a General and a Queen. A warning to babies and naughty children.
Is it possible to pack all that into a single gaze? Probably not. The inklings of despair at her eventual fate darken the corners of her eyes, but as she looks at Ru there is also the telltale sign of something stronger - something that wants to emerge and shake itself free of the worry.
Pressing her cheek onto one Ru’s palms, she listens and denies and agrees in micromovements. And when her friend tells her that she is good, Wessex has to laugh, because it seems like such a jump to go from ‘not a Monster’ to good. “If you knew me before, you might not say that. I was harder before you all came. An outcast, a thief, and a killer. I’m not good, but I am a survivor.” Sighing, Wessex looks down as Ru’s hand falls away. “You’re right though, I’m not a Monster with a capital M. Sometimes I think it might be easier for everyone if I were.”
WESSEX
