a moment of weakness and make it HURT
moment of weakness (randomly generated) | selectively accepting | @paternosis
2. My muse is emotionally compromised and breaking down.
She’s been carrying her anger for years.
It’s much like an animal — a child, even. It sat inside her chest and she has taken care of it, good care. She protected it, fed it, watch it grow up, grow bigger with the day. It would not be entirely wrong to say that it had become the very essence of what Jess is; it’s what separates Jess from Jessica, a girl that died a lifetime ago. (She’s been weak. Too weak to survive on her own, so she’d culled her. A mercy killing, one that allowed Jess to live instead.)
And her anger had paid her back a hundred times over. It’s easy to hide behind it, it’s easy to build a wall from it, a facade, something to protect herself from. There’s no weakness in that — to use your own weapons to avert danger to keep your resources is thinking ahead, is planning carefully.
Had her anger gotten the better of her? More often than not. Would she trade it for anything else — for compassion, for wits, for insight? No. Things that got you into trouble just the same, and at least she knew how to use her anger, her wrath as a sharpened blade, ready to strike.
Sometimes, however, it overwhelms her, takes over, and then leaves without a sign, and without it, she is lost, and she doesn’t know what to do.
Slow steps. There’s something in the ashes. It’s small, and white, like porcelain, but she doesn’t need to get closer to know what it is inside these burned down ruins that once were a home. She hadn’t known the Moores very well, but she traded, occasionally, with Aaron, and she knew of the twins clinging to their father’s legs constantly. Something she suspected were no less true for the last chance they had, with how close little bones pile together.
The radio she’s taken off a dead peggie shakes in her hand, and it clicks. She doesn’t care who of these fuckers is on the other side, she just wants to yell; to drag the bastard through the speaker and murder whichever one it was right here and now.
Instead, her legs give upon laying eyes on the remains of a half-built (or half burned?) crib, and her heart pounds up to her throat.
"This what you fuckers want? Bombing innocent children? What for, didn’t they wanna give you their wooden horse? Were you pissed they couldn’t hold a gun yet? They were five, for fuck’s sake. Five! You fuckers happy?!“
She sits on the ground, and ash smears on her clothes, and her skin. It’s still warm. There’s still spark inside the house.
"Hope you are, ‘cause I’m gonna get all of you.”
