Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Something within Melita clenched and unfurled all in the same breath. She didn’t want to talk about the war. It wasn’t in a sense of denial, so much as the impending doom and gloom, the rise over the horizon, the inevitable swing of something horrific she’d seen so many times before. Why they couldn’t just all live together, peacefully, without the outcries of injustice, the spark of indignation, or the scathing walls of death, was probably a ignorant notion; but gods if she wasn’t sick and tired of wondering if everyone was going to make it out all right. “Ludo seemed fine. Started a food fight at a party.” And here she grinned, because it’d been amusing, and far better than other actions of sedition. Maybe a reminder that it didn’t have to be a parade of endless sorrow and dread.
And that promise she made tucked itself in the back of her mind; saving it for nothing and no one but herself.
“I’ve been okay,” she offered with a light shrug. "Helped fight off a skeleton monster in the desert, and I'm still traveling with the Ark." Nothing quite out of the ordinary. “Not sure if you heard about my uncles moving,” and she said it with such a tone that suggested nothing in particular – save for a big empty house she’d inhabit every couple of seasons, when the Ark wasn’t stretching its wake across the seas. From there, she snagged at another round of driftwood, and then motioned over to the already established pile, dumping the collection in her arms there.
And that promise she made tucked itself in the back of her mind; saving it for nothing and no one but herself.
“I’ve been okay,” she offered with a light shrug. "Helped fight off a skeleton monster in the desert, and I'm still traveling with the Ark." Nothing quite out of the ordinary. “Not sure if you heard about my uncles moving,” and she said it with such a tone that suggested nothing in particular – save for a big empty house she’d inhabit every couple of seasons, when the Ark wasn’t stretching its wake across the seas. From there, she snagged at another round of driftwood, and then motioned over to the already established pile, dumping the collection in her arms there.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
