440: Ministrations for the Uncaring
A little girl of seven years old, maybe younger, watching from the safety of a large covered recliner, passively distraught by the scene going on in front of her. The shrieking cries for a non-existent saviour, dissonant with the retaliating shouts of unrestrained anger. Then a jump-cut to an older girl, still untainted by the unforgiving realities of the real world. The love for summer still strong, blooming in her heart like secretly woeful roses, revelling in the caresses of the warm breeze. For her in that moment, no kinds of violence existed, no pains of unrequited love, an all-encompassing innocence protecting her with a thin film.
A montage, a flurry of montages, all rolled into one, non-sequentially following the other, disrupting a chronological order that only the most boring, most conforming of sentient machines desired. The past, present and future, indiscernible. Like a photo album arranged haphazardly in no identifiable order, being flipped by the little curious hands of a toddler eagerly raking her eyes over the meaningless images.
So what did it matter to her, having been forced to swallow ugly, irrepressible truths? A mentally weak, physically strong girl such as herself instead decides to parry with tokens of affection, gamble with her future, tinkering with the melodious songs of hearts she had yet to discover and capture. Hardened to the fake ministrations the world attempted to offer her, and only seeking solace in the arms of those in whom she made a heavy emotional, potentially physical investment. She wondered, worried for the future, but despite all this, plunged herself into the unknown, plowing aimlessly, furiously, recklessly.
She woke up in a haze of heady lust, her eyes clouded with the remnants of the sexual dream she secretly wished to be true, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the bed sheet. Most mornings were like this now, if she woke up in time.
I don’t know where I was going with this.