Edited: 1/1,001 - Pearls
Mother is crying.
She says nothing. She makes no sound. Mother never does for tears. You only know she is crying from the sounds of the pearls hitting the rocks. Her back is to you, her long hair cascading around her. Those long nails, lacquered in moss, that have captivated you for so many years are combing through the silken waterfall of green. You never knew if Mother's hair is truly green or not; perhaps it is a cruel color to match her eyes that the years of scum had dyed.
You run to her, splashing through sea foam and seashells to reach her outcropping. You care not that your skirts are getting wet; you cannot remember a day when they were not salt-stiff. And as you wade closer, you see her face, emotionless in its pale beauty. Fragile cracks that look as haphazard as seaweed lays mar blushed cheeks and blood lips. You tilt your head closer trying to see this cracking beauty Mother has never had before.
Her bright eyes narrow at you, her hands pausing for a splash's brevity before continuing on unimpeded. Another pearl falls. "My dear little wave, why do you tread so near?"
You climb onto the lowest rock, no longer entranced by the melody that falls from Mother's mouth. Years spent living with her having dulled the effect of her ocean song. When you do not answer, Mother sighs and flicks the silken strands aside for a different section of hair. She turns to face you better and with her hands busy grooming her hair it exposes her pale breasts. But you no longer care anymore and neither does Mother; only the foolish creatures who do not have them do. It is their death, their song.
"I heard you crying. Is there anything I could do to help?" you murmur.
Mother pauses again, this time not taking up the grooming of her hair. Another pearl falls from her eyes as her serpentine tail rises from the waves to wrap around you. Her seaweed cracks become more larger, less finer as she lifts you close to her. "Mother is dying... But there is one thing you could do." Mother licks her lips, revealing fangs you have never seen before.
The finned tip of her tail slithers up your side. Across your ribs blossoming forgotten pain; up the middle of your chest, slicing away the tunic to reveal your young uncracked skin; against your throat with feathery love; and across your cheek, a cold touch with cruel intentions you can only now see in her eyes.
She leans her head close enough for you to smell the algae and to brush her hair against your arms. You see one last tear gather in her eyes the water dripping from lashes that are older and frailer than you have ever seen. Your eyes are transfixed as it travels down her cheek and carves another crack on her face. It hangs on her chin for the briefest of all splashes and then it falls. No longer water, but a pearl hits the rocks. Another pearl of red blood follows it.
Mother pulls away, a piece of flesh between her fangs. Your eyes grow heavy as you notice that it is yours. Mother is not crying anymore, but neither does she smile.
She leans in again, fangs bearing upon you. "Forgive Mother, my little wave. If only you had been ugly."
She says nothing. She makes no sound. Mother never does for tears. You only know she is crying from the sounds of the pearls hitting the rocks. Her back is to you, her long hair cascading around her. Those long nails, lacquered in moss, that have captivated you for so many years are combing through the silken waterfall of green. You never knew if Mother's hair is truly green or not; perhaps it is a cruel color to match her eyes that the years of scum had dyed.
You run to her, splashing through sea foam and seashells to reach her outcropping. You care not that your skirts are getting wet; you cannot remember a day when they were not salt-stiff. And as you wade closer, you see her face, emotionless in its pale beauty. Fragile cracks that look as haphazard as seaweed lays mar blushed cheeks and blood lips. You tilt your head closer trying to see this cracking beauty Mother has never had before.
Her bright eyes narrow at you, her hands pausing for a splash's brevity before continuing on unimpeded. Another pearl falls. "My dear little wave, why do you tread so near?"
You climb onto the lowest rock, no longer entranced by the melody that falls from Mother's mouth. Years spent living with her having dulled the effect of her ocean song. When you do not answer, Mother sighs and flicks the silken strands aside for a different section of hair. She turns to face you better and with her hands busy grooming her hair it exposes her pale breasts. But you no longer care anymore and neither does Mother; only the foolish creatures who do not have them do. It is their death, their song.
"I heard you crying. Is there anything I could do to help?" you murmur.
Mother pauses again, this time not taking up the grooming of her hair. Another pearl falls from her eyes as her serpentine tail rises from the waves to wrap around you. Her seaweed cracks become more larger, less finer as she lifts you close to her. "Mother is dying... But there is one thing you could do." Mother licks her lips, revealing fangs you have never seen before.
The finned tip of her tail slithers up your side. Across your ribs blossoming forgotten pain; up the middle of your chest, slicing away the tunic to reveal your young uncracked skin; against your throat with feathery love; and across your cheek, a cold touch with cruel intentions you can only now see in her eyes.
She leans her head close enough for you to smell the algae and to brush her hair against your arms. You see one last tear gather in her eyes the water dripping from lashes that are older and frailer than you have ever seen. Your eyes are transfixed as it travels down her cheek and carves another crack on her face. It hangs on her chin for the briefest of all splashes and then it falls. No longer water, but a pearl hits the rocks. Another pearl of red blood follows it.
Mother pulls away, a piece of flesh between her fangs. Your eyes grow heavy as you notice that it is yours. Mother is not crying anymore, but neither does she smile.
She leans in again, fangs bearing upon you. "Forgive Mother, my little wave. If only you had been ugly."