He makes her weak with his words. They were made to offer comfort and make her braver. Instead she watches and listens and takes none of them in. Her self-hatred is a deeply rooted thing. It is virulent and as rooted and fast growing as bamboo. It seeds and shoots and flowers at his words. Remembering leaves her with more wounds. She feels them ripping open anew each time she thinks of them. It is easier to try to forget. It is easier to stop herself from ever eating meat again - if only she was so strong!
Sereia misses his meaning. Or, worse, she does not wish to acknowledge it at all.
Slowly she blinks, as if to clear the pictures his words paint behind her lovely eyes. She turns her angular head and looks out across the sea of dancers. Rising above the music, their heartbeats, the surssurations of their rushing blood sound like violins. It is a delectable sound, like life begging to play out across her tongue.
When Sereia looks back, the man is turning from her. He dips his head in an invitation. Dare she step again into the throng where the scent of warm, vital bodies breaks violently against her like the tide. She has danced amidst them once this night, she is sure she could do it again - even though her stomach twists with hunger and want. Slowly Sereia follows him, out into the dancers, into the deep ocean of feet and limbs and revelry.
He says not to forget, but to remember.
She dances as she did before: to forget. The kelpie is not ready to remember herself. She might never be and it is that truth that might one day be more than scars upon her skin. It might be death’s inescapable grasp.
@Ipomoea - Fin, thank you too <3 I so enjoy your words.
an unspoken soliloquy of dreams
~ Ariana
