06-17-2015, 01:41 PM
She arrives like a ghost in a garden of dead limbs. Her body is something else; tainted, tarnished, unlike what she once was. She isn’t effortless anymore, she needs to make herself pretty. She is a mess of scars and a bundle of skin and bones all pressed together. God took what he had leftover from the important ones and molded it all together to make her, at age seven, and here she is; the very imperfect, unloved Smolder.
And you thought she had left for good.
Her blue eyes are heavy as she watches him blend into the scenery. She doesn’t smell her daughter, and a fire of anger burns in her throat before she reminds herself, “dear, you gave her away. Who is to blame.”
He is a failure of a father, just like you are a failure of a living being.
She walks with a dull stride and arrives at his shoulder like a silent hawk. Her breath exhales over his shoulder like so long ago. Once upon a time, he would have shivered in delight at the elegant touch of her love. And now? She imagines him shrinking in agony and disgust. He hated her, but she couldn’t hate him. What had she done to a perfect family? What had she done to him.
“Look at me,” her voice is soft and almost angelic, a dainty tone. She doesn’t know why she came here first, maybe out of false hope or because bad habits die hard. He was her first instinct upon entering Beqanna, the first face that popped into long term memory—the first real drive to do something. He wouldn’t understand, he hates her—but she will always love him.
Despite it all, despite everything, he was her only heart.
“I don’t see her,” she says with a sigh, a sad one. Not because Warship had failed—even if he had, Smolder couldn’t point fingers—but because she wished she could see her only daughter now. Her China Doll, as she so vividly dreamt about her. A perfect porcelain pony, free of bruises and tarnishes like her parents. A free spirit, a loveable kid. Oh how wrong she was about her daughter, how wrong she was about her dream.
The porcelain pony wasn’t Smother, but instead herself in a different light. Smolder was the perfect pony, if only she could see that.
“Don’t wreck this, please,” her desperation is vivid, her fear real. Warship might hate her but she wants to imagine him still liking her, even the faintest bit. “Pretend that you like me, pretend that you care. Pretend you missed me,” her voice is cracking on heavy words like pretend and missed—the very thought of him tearing her down like she knew she deserved was nearly unbearable.
Warship didn’t pretend though, and who was she to ask him to be.
And you thought she had left for good.
Her blue eyes are heavy as she watches him blend into the scenery. She doesn’t smell her daughter, and a fire of anger burns in her throat before she reminds herself, “dear, you gave her away. Who is to blame.”
He is a failure of a father, just like you are a failure of a living being.
She walks with a dull stride and arrives at his shoulder like a silent hawk. Her breath exhales over his shoulder like so long ago. Once upon a time, he would have shivered in delight at the elegant touch of her love. And now? She imagines him shrinking in agony and disgust. He hated her, but she couldn’t hate him. What had she done to a perfect family? What had she done to him.
“Look at me,” her voice is soft and almost angelic, a dainty tone. She doesn’t know why she came here first, maybe out of false hope or because bad habits die hard. He was her first instinct upon entering Beqanna, the first face that popped into long term memory—the first real drive to do something. He wouldn’t understand, he hates her—but she will always love him.
Despite it all, despite everything, he was her only heart.
“I don’t see her,” she says with a sigh, a sad one. Not because Warship had failed—even if he had, Smolder couldn’t point fingers—but because she wished she could see her only daughter now. Her China Doll, as she so vividly dreamt about her. A perfect porcelain pony, free of bruises and tarnishes like her parents. A free spirit, a loveable kid. Oh how wrong she was about her daughter, how wrong she was about her dream.
The porcelain pony wasn’t Smother, but instead herself in a different light. Smolder was the perfect pony, if only she could see that.
“Don’t wreck this, please,” her desperation is vivid, her fear real. Warship might hate her but she wants to imagine him still liking her, even the faintest bit. “Pretend that you like me, pretend that you care. Pretend you missed me,” her voice is cracking on heavy words like pretend and missed—the very thought of him tearing her down like she knew she deserved was nearly unbearable.
Warship didn’t pretend though, and who was she to ask him to be.