The thing which called herself Anandi could not decide what she wanted more: to be terrible or lovely. She was very fond of Anandi, but of course there were other names she went by. Kelpie, water horse, princess, sister, daughter, beloved, lady (she liked lady, especially on the lips of a king) monster, Andi, Emissary… the list went on, and each name or role or title brought a different part of the beautiful creature to the surface.
Half of her was charmed by these festivities, the other was restless, hungry, and terribly bored. On one hand, the novelty of it all-- the lights, tinsel, gifts, dancing, music, alcohol-- it was all so much more and so much brighter than everything she’d ever seen before. On the other, it was all so terribly…tedious. She quickly learned how disgusting men could be when they’ve had too much to drink (occasionally women as well, although they leaned more towards annoying) and, perhaps worse, how terribly unoriginal when approaching a lady.
Most annoying of all was that she could not let her disgust nor her annoyance show. Her station was above such base emotions, at least in so public a venue. So she was patient, and sweet, and coy but unavailable. All the while, she was starving.
(picture this: a wolf trapped in the sheep’s pen, made to dance with what should be its supper, and maintain a smile the whole time.)
In the crowded court-- most of the drunkards were here, but it was at least more entertaining than the vigil at the hospital-- Anandi stands near a terrace, a smile painted on her dark lips, and she wonders if anyone would notice if she… slipped outside, for a little bit. Just long enough for a dip in the ocean, and a snack.
bloop. open to any
some say the loving and the devouring are all the same thing
☾
