The Cycle

Chapter Eleven

The fingers floating in blood splotched liquids, chopped from those she called blood; filled her with comprehension and incomprehension that swirled together to create tortured thoughts.

She understood what the chopped appendages meant: a truth designed to break her spirit; yet she denied it, a lie designed to protect her mind.

The truth prevailed over the lie, and what horrible fiend the truth was; it broke her mind according to design. Broke it in a way that could not be understood. And cast a terrible light on Malik, no one she loved was safe, and he held captive, the three most important persons in her life. And the internal rise this brought forth, were claws and fangs, which bit and ripped into her heart.

The sin of the daughter flowed as tainted blood through the veins of the family tree, and corrupted the fruit of all that'd blossomed: an infusion of her ill fated life, into otherwise healthy lives - That would have remained healthy still, if only her branch had been cut at the beginning of her descent to darkness.

They were innocent. Did no wrong.

Her mother, weathered beyond her age; transverse long distances into rowdy marketplaces, and struggled with those five times more able than she was. All for her children - when she, Mabel, reached a point, as she did most times, where she could not provide support. Her mother did her best, in her limited capacity.

This mutilation, given her condition, wasn't fair; and the twins, children not old enough to have a lurking enemy like Malik; she could only imagine the horror that came on them, shattered their worldview of humanity, when they saw the fate about to befall them.

Was the process swift, a light humane response - at their innocent fear; or was it drawled out, the cruel face of evil, which reveled in the suffering of others.

Whichever: it made her heart bleed.

Abigail grabbed and shook her by the shoulders, mouthing words that were silent to her ears: the quietness of drowning in an invisible bubble of water.

The yellow bulbs flickered, brought darkness, brought light, like it approached its last luminary life shine. So did her mind flicker: acceptance, rejection, of what she knew to be true, yet wanted above all things to be a lie. Truth and acceptance, what terrible fiends they were.

Myra entered her line of sight, eyes narrowed, and a face that held no playfulness; shoved Abigail aside; and in a motion Mabel fully understood, yet made no move to avoid - despite the accompanying pain it carried. (she wanted the pain. Pain was good.)

Myra's fist cut through air, too fast for Abigail to hold back; and the pain that met her left cheek, brought a tinge of coppery taste in her mouth, whipped her head to the right, brought with it the welcomed pain, which shocked her senses back to reality. The reality of the quake she'd brought forth in her near catatonic state - receding, fading back into the night.

There will be commotion - when daylight breaks darkness.

Her homeland territory, Ostenia, has never known quakes.

"There, she's back."

"That was uncalled for."

"It was effective."

"Let effectiveness accompany our next course of action. Not our fists."

"Plan away. I'm all ears. Sooner or later, your effective plan will call for my effective fists."

"I don't like this part of you."

"Forgive my tone. But look at her. Look. A monster takes joy in her pain, and I'll take greater joy, rendering payback."