violence
She had thought of that girl, since. She didn’t know her name – had not shared hers, either. It itches at her, sometimes, the hesitant familiarity of her, and then that noise – not the same as the ones her father and sister made, but close. Enough that she felt an irrational moment of jealousy.
But that had been all. She should have forgotten about her by now. That’s how she works, Violence – she forgets many of them, discards their conversations and moves on to the next. Some stand out, of course – those who bend to her, who yield, who open their minds and even bodies to her.
Those, she remembers. She savors.
But this girl had done none of that. So why does she think about her?
She isn’t thinking about her now, as she moves in the forest. She is looking for more bones – the monsters had left many delightful things behind – but today her search has yielded little. Her bone creature moves alongside her, her constant companion, the gentle clatter of its bones soothing to her.
And then she looks ahead, and there she is again. That dark not-sister, so clearly not a monster, but with some grasp of the language. That nameless stranger.
Violence moves faster, almost rushing to her. In her vanity, she has no doubt that the girl will remember her – she is quite memorable, after all – with the bone-thing stumbling after her.
“You,” she says, “who are you?”
She will find out, this time.
these violent delights bring violent ends
@[Nostromo]