11-09-2015, 09:09 PM
Look what I have done.
I have created a horrible, dramatic, emotional wreck. My genes have done this. I did this.
It is one thing to have created something basic. Something that surely you cannot be proud of, something you cannot brag about, something that you dismiss as nothing but grandchildren. It is another thing to come to the realization you have created something absolutely pathetic. You start questioning all your decisions, all your motives, everything that amounted to the birth of your own kin. And then you wonder how the hell, how on earth did a child of your own genetics turn out to be so absolutely messy.
It is something else entirely to be irritated with your own creations.
Clearly this emotional wreck is more of her father. Yes, that is it. This poor child is cursed with the emotional stability of Oxytocin. That’s alright, our beautiful and talented Kindling can mend that tear.
“Hush,” it is an order not a lullaby. Kindling has reached the end of her act, she cannot bear to hold herself together any longer. To act caring is like asking the Mad Hatter to act wise and discreet. He can manage a sentence, maybe a paragraph—but to call him a doctor is a crime. He will, in a minute or two, crack.
Crack.
I love that word.
Crack.
“You’re cracking, Cress” she states with no real empathy at all. Kindling is who Kindling is, a widow twice left by men who she loved, loved. And this child dare whine about being abandoned once. Once! What a hysterical problem. She doesn’t know what it is like to be left, and then taken, and then left, and then picked up, and then left, and then left twice in a row. She doesn’t know what it is like to have broken into a million pieces several times, only to have the next person cradle her and mend her back together. And then only in a months time, a month, does someone come and knock her glass vase of a heart off the kitchen table once more.
Broken.
Fixed.
Broken.
Fixed.
“Here I thought a daughter of such powerful bloodlines would be stronger than this. Would be… Memorable. And yet here you are, a blip in time and a mistake at best. Cress, I thought you were something worth coming back for.”
Isn’t that awfully sad, that a mare of her elegance and class would come back only to be disappointed once more? Shame, shame that Kindling wasted her time imagining her daughter to be fantastic. Imagining that her child—a child that was conceived by a man she half believed to be absolute perfection—would be flawless and bold.
Smolder was a blip, a mistake, a mess.
Sinder was emotional, a mute, useless.
But now to find Cress nothing more than diagnosed with a serious case of empathy and emotional distress… Well. Well maybe she should just stop reproducing altogether.
Her children seem to have no real baring on the world.
“I am so sorry child, that you turned out the way you did. Maybe you are my lesson. You, my dear, are my lesson to never reproduce again.”
What a lovely lesson to be learnt.
I have created a horrible, dramatic, emotional wreck. My genes have done this. I did this.
It is one thing to have created something basic. Something that surely you cannot be proud of, something you cannot brag about, something that you dismiss as nothing but grandchildren. It is another thing to come to the realization you have created something absolutely pathetic. You start questioning all your decisions, all your motives, everything that amounted to the birth of your own kin. And then you wonder how the hell, how on earth did a child of your own genetics turn out to be so absolutely messy.
It is something else entirely to be irritated with your own creations.
Clearly this emotional wreck is more of her father. Yes, that is it. This poor child is cursed with the emotional stability of Oxytocin. That’s alright, our beautiful and talented Kindling can mend that tear.
“Hush,” it is an order not a lullaby. Kindling has reached the end of her act, she cannot bear to hold herself together any longer. To act caring is like asking the Mad Hatter to act wise and discreet. He can manage a sentence, maybe a paragraph—but to call him a doctor is a crime. He will, in a minute or two, crack.
Crack.
I love that word.
Crack.
“You’re cracking, Cress” she states with no real empathy at all. Kindling is who Kindling is, a widow twice left by men who she loved, loved. And this child dare whine about being abandoned once. Once! What a hysterical problem. She doesn’t know what it is like to be left, and then taken, and then left, and then picked up, and then left, and then left twice in a row. She doesn’t know what it is like to have broken into a million pieces several times, only to have the next person cradle her and mend her back together. And then only in a months time, a month, does someone come and knock her glass vase of a heart off the kitchen table once more.
Broken.
Fixed.
Broken.
Fixed.
“Here I thought a daughter of such powerful bloodlines would be stronger than this. Would be… Memorable. And yet here you are, a blip in time and a mistake at best. Cress, I thought you were something worth coming back for.”
Isn’t that awfully sad, that a mare of her elegance and class would come back only to be disappointed once more? Shame, shame that Kindling wasted her time imagining her daughter to be fantastic. Imagining that her child—a child that was conceived by a man she half believed to be absolute perfection—would be flawless and bold.
Smolder was a blip, a mistake, a mess.
Sinder was emotional, a mute, useless.
But now to find Cress nothing more than diagnosed with a serious case of empathy and emotional distress… Well. Well maybe she should just stop reproducing altogether.
Her children seem to have no real baring on the world.
“I am so sorry child, that you turned out the way you did. Maybe you are my lesson. You, my dear, are my lesson to never reproduce again.”
What a lovely lesson to be learnt.
![[Image: HFqRV2Q.png]](https://i.imgur.com/HFqRV2Q.png)