Littlest Brontides

17

Littlest Brontides | cereseithne
Alongside Fear

Please be advised that this chapter may contain vulgarities. Read at your own discretion.

A flash of lightning struck in the distance which was followed by the galvanic plangent roaring of the clouds. The sky will unleash a tumultuous pour again. The crepuscule had already descended and the winds a roaring tempest; the night will be brutally cold once more like shards of ice against the thin sheet of skin.

The clouds were rolling in. Was the sky fuming mad again? Maybe it was outraged but its anger never bothered nor frightened the belle about twenty, who was prying the now-empty glass of watermelon juice, in this terribly cold night. There was something that terrifies her more; and with chilling certainty, it wasn't lightning and thunder.

It was Thalia, a woman who was slouching at the floor whilst staring stolidly at the blank screen of the television for no apparent instigation or rational ground. Or maybe there is, only that she reprobates or is afraid to acknowledge the terrifying truth. But neither did it make not ostensible to figure out that she was indisputably perturbed just by her actions today: one, above the glass table mantled with sanguine silk, is a bowl of colorful cereals that fingers haven't been laid upon; and two, the count of sighs she had since the morning she woke up was overwhelming in number.

Unquestionably, she was frightened. Who wouldn't be scared when a surge of formidable remnants wash over her in the shapes of a nightmare once again?

Yes, that was the reason; the reason why she was ill at ease since dawn that she couldn't eat notwithstanding the fact that her tummy already rumbles. She had a nightmare last night: a horrifying one that carries small bits of the occurrences she had buried down deep in her heart, now is awakened—to incarcerate her once more.

The nightmare had been recurring for multiple nights, pinpricking her heart as the jagged images of her being domineered at and adding furthermore fractures to her heart by being thrown such ingeniously conceited understatement and/or jokes. It broke her already smithereened heart. She was a laughingstock; a subject of lowly derisions before. And the pain still gnaws and lingers to her. It sank into her bones, and what had been done can never be undone.

How could someone be so narrow-minded? To yell her obscenities and insulting ridicules? What did she ever do to deserve such suffering like this? Nothing.

Do they ever grok, for once, what lies underneath the abyssal plain of her? No, to intoxicate her with the perfume of carbon monoxide in the shape of hurtful words is what they do. Not ever giving heed to how she tries to hold off pain atop her frail wings. But instead, slough off every bit of hope she has which hid beneath the layers of the scars they've caused.

And she couldn't even fight for herself, for the truth. That she wasn't a naiveté, an unclean woman, a psychotic just because she's germophobic, and what—a sociopath? What more? Ah! An addict. She wasn't any of those; never.

The ground for such derogatory or scornful words is yonder the context of morality; even irrational. Was it all just vindictive? Insulting words done out of spite? No, she couldn't think of any basis of avenge.

All that she knows was presumably hate; hate for no good reason. What else could it be?

And all she did was to be a good person, only to be hated unreasonably.

As time passes, it became more increasingly difficult for her to be okay. She has been on medications and therapies for quite long, unfortunately, she felt as though it wasn't taking up an effect on her.