SCENE 6 – The Flower that Lost its Kindness

The swords scathingly scrape against one another, all the while pressing against Clare's breasts – harder and harder and harder, cutting through the cloth, jutting into her skin. She finds herself barely holding ground, skidding back against her will.

Her arms and wrists falter, overtaxed, threatening to snap. She could almost picture them fracturing like a twig. Clare decides to stop resisting, and instead helps herself to the Yoma's push, leaping as far back as she could help it, finally landing plenty of strides away from the beast.

Her shoulders rise up and down in tandem with her exerted breaths.

Ahead, the Yoma takes its slow, calculated steps towards her, with its mocking teary-eyed stare.

I need more.. more..

Clare strains out more yoki to her will, groaning, the arousing energies swelling inside her. She feels her legs and arms cringe and tighten, and her face flushing with warmth. The ebbing pain seeps away from her aching wrists. In her hands the greatsword begins to feel more at ease, no longer feeling so cumbersome.

She grips with all strength the greatsword's handle.

The Yoma passes through the darkness for a moment.

With coursing rage, Clare lunges to the being. She grunts out as she throws most of her force on her swing to its stomach.

Anticipating another effortless deflection, she forces back back her sword at the last moment- seeing the longsword flash out to the left, to meet nothing-

Clare arcs her sword up to brush past the longsword. She feels it hit something; not the sudden hardness of a parry for once but the soft flesh - its arm. And to Clare's delight, the proud blood through the deranged simulacrum meets air for the first time. She feels spatters over her bare cheeks, feeling lukewarm.

Its arm dangles down an unnatural way, hanging with just what connected tissue is still there, stretched. Blood gushes, spurts out from the gap where her sword has embedded, dripping down all to the ground.

It makes a hideous, ear-piercing shriek; Rodrik's longsword is wildly flashing about in its grip – slamming every which way and bashing against the adjacent wall, columns, in thundering collisions of debris. It thrashes all over, losing control over the body.

Clare holds stubbornly onto her sword, unwilling to let go through the jabs of motion. She finds herself rushing along with the turns of Rodrik's body, slamming hard against the wall. The motions make her own stomach churl inside. She could feel the half-digested food inside her slushing around so sickeningly.

Its blood spills all over her in still-warm wet.

In the frantic blurs, Clare could have sworn the half-torn arm coming back alive. Her hands have taken the strain far enough. With another jerk, her fingers slip, and she clatters down against the wet cold ground.

The Yoma whirls around, slamming against the wall once more – finally dislodging the greatsword from its great monstrous body. As it clatters lowly on the stone floor, the Yoma looks around- finding the darkness through the doorway.

Then it is gone.

/...

Clare is lying alone on the cold floor with the once living. Some look back on her with sullen, empty eyes. What will of hers there was has drained gone. She hopes for nothing more than to submit to the nothingness where which she drifts to.

Then why are you here?

Clare does not know. All these moments for nothing but death.

Then what is your hand for?

Those little hands of hers, laying limp. They tried. They ache and ebb on the joints. They couldn't.

Then why does your heart go on?

Deep within herself, Clare searches her heart for that little strand, maybe whispering still, called hope. Where had hope lead her to? It wouldn't bring back the treasured love of mama and papa, and it wouldn't bring back the tenderness and warmth of Teresa. It left everyone here dead when they should be living on in peace. Hope mocks and agonizes her with a dream that never will come. Ever.

And deep within, her heart is swelling up, so much

hate

sorrow

bitterness

despair

rage

overwhelming in her, screaming all at once to come out whichever way they can.

Her lonely heartbeats beat on in the silence.

What now? There's herself – a pathetic, pitiful.. little self. All there's left for her is the rest of her time in the world to live on, ponder around those thoughts in her head.

Tears come. At first they are the unsure drops that come so timidly, whether it is all right to let go in the moment. They might hear her.

Then they do come.

/...

When the tears could no longer come from her stinging eyes, all that is left is the emptyness, so tired out. No – not just empty, but a sort of vague yet hateful coldness, she thought only came from those onlookers upon herself.

What now? There's herself, indeed there is. Otherwise there would be no pain.

Then there's the Yoma

die

that still lives on.