domestic

There’s a churning madness deep within her, carefully reined in by a decade’s worth of training, training and training.

A good girl is an honest girl. A good lady does not say what she thinks, what she feels. A modest woman has no right to feel affection for a man much clearly higher in rank and attributes than her. A good woman knows her place, and that is to stay silent, let herself scarce, and never show an inch of power she could have held when a greater man is present. She only yields, yields and waits, waits. What she feels does not matter when the man has clearly nothing to do with her.

A man once said to her that life is unfair like that. She might have kept a cold facade that moment, a head slightly tilting in interest, but those words had broken her well-kept resolve.

It's hideously irritating to think how she would not bat an eyelash at any prospect of mental, physical or psychological attack, but give her words delivered by a calm demeanor and she runs away for the hills to heal her weak heart. 

Truth. It's the truth she can't accept--that she could never get what she hoped to have, could never be what she wanted to be no matter how hard she tried, could never receive anything when all she had done is give, give, give.

It's times like this she feels much like that red-cloaked figure from a certain tale. Always stubborn to get what she wants, but she faces the big, bad wolf and she cringes and hide in her red hood.

Until, something, of course, snaps.

Then she would feel so inclined to touch the wolf, his fangs open wide for carnage. And for a moment, she wishes to get lost in it, the madness, that state of not thinking at all and just feel, attack, everything be damned.

What she fears the most, though, is that through all these ponderings, it was her who continued to prod the wolf with words and beastly eyes. Bite me, bite me, she would chant, and her claws would come out, beauty never an afterthought as she opens red, red eyes and lunge. Bloodshed would come, and victory would be hers.

She knows she could have that power, that madness, but then there are years, and years. And it just kept on getting reined in. 

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starless

The nights are especially worst when rain approaches.

So much cold, so much longing for warmth. Sometimes she wondered why she needed it, the warmth, when she feels just so cold inside.

She can be what one can consider a warrior after all. She can sustain extreme temperatures just as much as she can temper day-to-day struggles, and this was just one of the mellower ones she has experienced in her lifetime.

Watching the stars fade at the open window she chose not to close, she kept herself warm with her blankets as she gradually lulled herself to sleep.

No matter what people say, two years is still not that long a time to completely move on.

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