What the girl always needed, what she always knew she needed was just a little bit of structure.
You, there, you, the one with the name now, the one with the body and the brain and the house with the walls. You wouldn’t call it cruelty, but you must know somehow, innately, that I suffer for it. And the only reason I cannot raise my fist and cry out to the gods above is that I am keenly aware that you suffer for it, too. And the only answer is for me to step outside of the circle of salt and say I leave you to your monsters.
I think I could do it, but it would come with a terrible cost. And I could only do it if I was told I could or should.
The crumbly crumbs! What appeared as a smorgasbord, as a unending table of affections and games and delights, marzipan fruits, pies full of birds, tarts upon tarts, is now one plate, one cup, no saucer, and there’s dregs at the bottom and crumbs around the center. I don’t want to get up, but I’m hungry. I’m ravenous for something that fills the belly. For something that mutes every mew, that cossets every cry. I am starving for a full on declaration, a statement of fact, a true and unavoidable acceptance of a nebulous possibility forged into metal, carved from hard stone.
All the while, this unholy monstrosity is being foisted upon us.