jamie
05-28-2021, 07:06 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
He mistakes his fear for fury.
(White-hot terror at the prospect of never seeing the girls again, his girls -- their girls.)
Because he is not a thing built for fear and this is the only way he knows how to translate it, through a lens of anger. Rage. It expands until it swallows him up whole. But it is that same kind of lethal fury, the quiet kind. Steady, pulsing, cold.
The kind of fury that convinces him that he could kill her. If that’s what it took to stop her from taking the children from him.
But it is not love that sparks this fear, is it? Because, just as he is not a thing built for fear, he is not a thing built for love. He loved them for the amount of time he’d been near them, in the proximity of the third daughter, the only time he ever could. But he feels no natural love for them now. No, it is a matter of possession. Power. He does not feel for them the way Beyza feels for them. The girls, too, had been part of the plan.
(Is this a tantrum, then? A vicious, wild lashing out at the way things are collapsing around him when he’d been so certain that they would be successful in their conquest.)
His nostrils flare and the muscles tremble beneath the surface of his shadow-skin as he stares at her, the eyes still glowing a mercurial red.
He could kill her.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he draws in a rattling breath and wraps a cold hand around her throat again. Squeezes as fiercely as he can for the space of a breath and then abruptly releases her.
“You’ll be sorry,” he whispers, a promise.
(White-hot terror at the prospect of never seeing the girls again, his girls -- their girls.)
Because he is not a thing built for fear and this is the only way he knows how to translate it, through a lens of anger. Rage. It expands until it swallows him up whole. But it is that same kind of lethal fury, the quiet kind. Steady, pulsing, cold.
The kind of fury that convinces him that he could kill her. If that’s what it took to stop her from taking the children from him.
But it is not love that sparks this fear, is it? Because, just as he is not a thing built for fear, he is not a thing built for love. He loved them for the amount of time he’d been near them, in the proximity of the third daughter, the only time he ever could. But he feels no natural love for them now. No, it is a matter of possession. Power. He does not feel for them the way Beyza feels for them. The girls, too, had been part of the plan.
(Is this a tantrum, then? A vicious, wild lashing out at the way things are collapsing around him when he’d been so certain that they would be successful in their conquest.)
His nostrils flare and the muscles tremble beneath the surface of his shadow-skin as he stares at her, the eyes still glowing a mercurial red.
He could kill her.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he draws in a rattling breath and wraps a cold hand around her throat again. Squeezes as fiercely as he can for the space of a breath and then abruptly releases her.
“You’ll be sorry,” he whispers, a promise.
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD
@[Beyza]