AND THERE'S NO WAY TO ESCAPE THE VIOLENCE OF A GIRL AGAINST HERSELF
It is easier to look at the Bexleys-in-the-mirror than the real thing. Seraphina wonders why. It is probably guilt. (It is usually guilt, nowadays.)
Her disgust at Seraphina’s apology is palpable, and she thinks that it is probably overstated; nevertheless, she gives a nod of her head, and she resists the urge to apologize for apologizing, which would be quite the opposite of what Bexley had just told her to never do again. She doesn’t seem to believe it. Seraphina does mean it, though – she just can’t quite believe that her disappearance mattered in the first place.
But that is irrelevant.
The question - what happened to you? - makes her wince.
Seraphina wonders why; she assumes, then, that she doesn’t want to talk about it. (Does she want to talk about her death?) At any rate, Bexley offers no answer. I… she says, and then trails off, her tone wavering in a way that is quite unlike her, I don’t know. Does it matter?
She doesn’t know. Seraphina cannot help but think that it is a bad thing that she doesn’t, maybe even a terrible one – because surely she should. (Unless she is lying.) But she can’t bring herself to say it, to press any further. This all feels far too fragile to threaten.
“No,” she says, slowly. “I guess it doesn’t.” It probably should; she can’t quite imagine a Bexley Briar that wouldn’t react to such an offense with hellfire and brimstone, a Bexley Briar that wouldn’t come back from the dead ready to drag whoever – or whatever – had put her into the ground down into the grave with her. Compared to the simple fact that Bexley is alive, however, Seraphina can’t help but think that it is irrelevant.
She moves, then. A streak of gold-and-white-blonde, reflected a hundred times in little shards of mirror. She watches her reflection move, not the real thing, even when she can feel her breath on her skin. She watches herself in third person.
When she presses her lips to Seraphina’s cheek, she does not jerk away.
She probably should, she thinks, belatedly; it would be more Seraphina-like if she did. But she doesn’t. She remains frozen in place until Bexley herself draws away, and then she is the one to carelessly breach her personal space. She rests her jaw against the curve of her skull, sockets her forehead against the curve of her neck – something like an embrace, but not quite.
(The mirrors refract the image horribly. She does not look at them – she won’t look at them.)
Somewhere between the love letters, or one set of moon-silver eyes or another, or a rare, unguarded touch – somewhere amidst all of that, she’d come to the terrible realization that she could love someone, after all. Maybe she did. (Maybe she does.) The revelation was cruel. It doesn’t matter. Her heart is probably broken. She probably did it to herself. It doesn’t matter.
She’s loved plenty of things in her life, when forced to consider it. She doesn’t want to think about it, but she has – she’s loved Solterra, and she’s loved her god, and she’s loved so, so many people in so many different ways.
She hasn’t deserved a moment of it. Not the affection she’d received, nor the faith, nor the loyalty, nor the devotion. She couldn’t make any of them happy; she’d never be able to do that. She’d done nothing but ruin them, drag them down with her.
But – the worst of it is how desperately she doesn’t want to be alone.
The worst of it is how desperately she wants to beg someone to stay. The worst of it is how desperately she wants to be found, no matter how she runs. The worst of it is how she can never, ever let that happen – the worst of that is how she knows it only means pulling someone else into her misery. She wants to be alone. She is an infliction, now. She doesn’t want to be alone.
She lingers. Not for long. Long enough to mean – something, probably -, but not for long. Not long enough to matter. And then she pulls herself away, and she steps back, forcing her expression into something unreadable. (Ereshkigal is laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing - and the sound rings horribly between her ears. Foolish girly, she hisses, like a breath of wind. Seraphina ignores her.)
“Should we look for a way out?”
@
"Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
