don't ruin this for me
She understands the pull.
For the water belongs to her just as she does to it.
(But the water does not belong to her the same way it belongs to her father, no. The water does not listen to her the way it listens to him.)
But she so seldom has to go looking for the water when it runs so sweetly down her sides. Rivers from her glass skin, turned to falls when she comes to rest beside him. And she tilts her fine head, trying to find the river through the fog.
She can feel the creeping unease, fingers of fear splintering outward from the center of her chest. Fine, greedy vines twisting themselves darkly around her heart. It gets her pulse racing, but that dreamy smile does not dim at its corners. She still looks at him wistful, wonders if he is drawn to the water for the same reasons she is. Because it lives in her skin and in her soul. Or if it’s something else altogether.
“Are you born from the water?” she asks and then, quietly, “I think my father is.”
She can feel the creeping unease, but she cannot feel the way he shifts through her thoughts. If she could, perhaps she would think something more interesting than how disappointing it is that the moonlight cannot penetrate the fog to set the water ablaze. How fond she is of the way it glints like she does.
She is a hapless victim, coaxed so easily into the web he weaves her. So blissfully oblivious to the fact that she is prey. Eager, despite the pang of fear in the cavern of her chest, to engage. It is not that she is lonely, there is nothing about her that is desperate, it’s that every conversation is a fever dream.
She is on the verge of answering -- yes, she is alone, not such a rare thing these days as it had once been -- when she hears it. It coils itself sweetly into her psyche, the marrow of her bones, as if the words live within her. But the voice does not belong to her.
“Did you do that?” she asks like the flutter of butterfly wings and smiles, “I think I heard you in my head just then.”
@[Molech]