Storms of the Sky

syrup from a bottle - VII

TW: Bl..d, d..th, mention of m.rder, n.dity

--Nyx--

"Wait!" She screeches, her palms pressing dangerously on the prison car's dashboard. Her head tucks in, slowly, like syrup from a bottle. Like blood from a wound.

Her snapping necks reminds me of bursting embers from when I was a kitten. Too poor she is, this woman of sticky black hair of tar and frightened, dimming eyes of ice.

She crumples in, her body folding.

The car stops. Glass bursting, shards slicing her flesh. Blood bubbles, dripping red in her eyes. Cold eyes. Still eyes.

"Marigold," the man next to her whispers.

Oh, I forgot he was there.

"Marigold," Raspy, he is. Quickened, hurried, he speaks. "Mari, Mari."

Tar-haired woman, Marigold. She's stilled. Stilled stilled.

"Marigold, Marigold, what about our daughter, Marigold?" He whispers, voice like weight on a lake in winter. His own gray eyes. He's mythless. With a Blue-Eyed, nonetheless. Must a Blue-Eyed daughter. "Mari."

Oh his voice, his breaking voice. Oh don't cry Marigold's Love, don't cry for her. If Marigold wanted to survive, she would have not pressed her palms against the dash. She would have thought, not acted. But then again, I thought. And now I can be assumed dead as well.

Oh Marigold. Poor Marigold.

The man cries. Hands to his eyes, wiping, weeping. Snot in the creases of his palms. Oh Marigold's Love. Poor poor.

What ever will happen to your daughter?

Air catches in my lungs, pressing against the organ. My breath. My air.

I gasp, shaking my head. With the shake, my body morphs. A side effect of being a Lendro.

I don't enjoy it. But it can get me what I desire. Too bad I'm here. I was popular back in the cities. I was somebody.

I hated that somebody, but at least it was something. Wasn't it? I could go up to a group, announce my status and they'd all be mine. What I could do. I had the best times. They were all void.

My human form is favorable to humans at the very least. You can't get much done as a cat. Lead to better visions, but less desires are met. And I had many.

Pale skin, veiny blue and purple. Oh veined hands, veined neck. With slick ebony hue hair to my chin. Thin body, boney body. Covered with scars. Golden eyes. The eyes most desirable by those who desire. Gold eyes that grant me seer but not vision. Blurry, everything is blurry. Colors and shapes, but faces? Faces are just like my times in the cities.

My palm presses to the chilled stone ground. Since when had I gone into the cave?

I stand. Wobbling on my legs.

Another side effect of being a Lendro, legs wobble when you morph. And clothes don't morph with you. Try not to imagine it.

At the very least I can slip into places in my cat form. Learn things that my visions deny me. Who did this? Oh, who did that?

I know all.

I step. My knees mustn't buckle. Steps after steps. I emerge from the cave, nearest to my camp.

My home, a simple fire and mound of bedding. I just toss everything else off the island. Down and down until they meet the ground. Intruders have learned not to climb up to my sky island. There's enough bones and splattered guts down there for them to see the stains of my self defense. Sometimes it's not. What's the matter?

I peel open my eyes. Widen and widen, the blurs of the tips of trees and blue of the sky.

An eye for an eye I suppose. It's ironic, isn't it? Someone I know would call it 'A overused and ableist troupe'. But I haven't met them yet. Not technically.

I won't for a while. After the drugs and the lies and desires of them get blurred by suffering. Oh, you weren't supposed to know that.

Just wait. You won't be able to glance away from them soon enough.

And Marigold, who's that daughter?