r e c k i t t
crash through the surface
where they can't hurt us
where they can't hurt us
I
t’s Reckitt--If she sobbed for days, she would still not have enough salt water to cleanse herself from the perverse revelation of what comes next. Those glassy eye, like a fogged up mirror, the steam making a reflection blurred, hazed. Eyes that did not see her, did not recognize her, they traced the form of her newness with no recollection.
It’s Reckitt--
Kitt felt like she had dove into the river, head first, bombarded with the bitter cold of icy Winter frigidity. The pale mare went cold, empty, her heart sank and rose up into her throat all at once. Her senses flooded, without the rampant water of the tides, she felt numb, forsaken. Something was so very wrong here, she was wrong, it was all wrong this life and yet she was here. Shaking all over, her nerves are pins and needles, anxious and malicious.
It’s Reckitt--
“W-we have,” she chokes, the words like knotted netting, she but a bird or a fish caught and imprisoned. Shackled in a body that was not hers, It’s Reckitt, but it is hers, she is Reckitt, this is me now, she tells herself. Those are thoughts she does not wish to hear, squinting her eyes shut painfully so, until the sun leaves orange orbs against the blackness of her lids.
“Not Asteas,” she shakes her head, confused, cheated. “You, y-you were there, I was there, you were my f-friend.” Kitt can not help the way she sobs, the way her words crack and change pitch, as if she does not know whether to shout, to whisper, to chant like a rhyme would send this awful nightmare away. If words are wind, why isn’t she wind as well? She was feeling more and more meaningless as the days went by, some erasable thing.
“Hāsta, your bird, she wasn’t alive then-there-Ourania..I d-don’t understand,” nothing makes sense, so she shivers, overrun with tremors, becoming unsteady and swaying once, perhaps twice.
“I thought, I h-hoped, we aren’t supposed to be like this!” Shouting, her voice is raised in her distress, eye wild and whites exposed, fear befalling her as her nostrils flare wide. “We’re wolves, we were wolves, I am a wolf,” its more than a statement, more than a truth that finds its way into the exposure of being spoken, being made corporeal and substantial in this moment.
It’s Reckitt--
A silver head hangs, drooping and defeated, she wished she could disappear now, like she once had there on the bone littered beaches. Kitt wanted to fade away, she wanted to become the nothing that she felt she was. “There’s no such thing as Elysium,” she whispers and in some ways, there isn’t, their Kingdom had not fleshed out, left unfinished, abandoned.
@Corrdelia | "speaks" | notes: 479
