“To give life you must take life,
And as our grief falls flat and hollow upon blooded sea
I say to you, I only do to you what the Sparrow did to me--
But I will turn our grief to joy
I will be old and envy the young.
I will forsake sanity with madness as penance.
I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
And I will love when it would take less courage to hate.”
And as our grief falls flat and hollow upon blooded sea
I say to you, I only do to you what the Sparrow did to me--
But I will turn our grief to joy
I will be old and envy the young.
I will forsake sanity with madness as penance.
I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
And I will love when it would take less courage to hate.”
Gaol. It is a place for bad people, for people who have done bad things, a place to lock them up so they can no longer do bad things. The tiny madwoman stares from a distance at the building, unassuming as it was, as if the gallows waited just on the other side of the doors. Perhaps they did. Gaols are meant to lock people away, dark, cold places with dark, cold stone, little personal oubliettes, places to forget bad people and their bad deeds. Dark, cold places with dark, cold guards who grabbed and hurt—and hurt more if you did not remain silent and let them take what they wanted, just remain silent and stare at the doors you were not allowed to go through, not allowed to touch—
Her head shakes abruptly, quelling those thoughts before the panic might overcome her eerily calm mind; it was like the smooth surface of a lake in the early morning, the barest of ripples in the serenity of the moment, just waiting for someone to throw a large stone in with a heavy splash and ruin all of that peace she has worked to build for this moment. She had even taken the time to brush her hair, or try to, to remove the worst of the wild snarls that made the dark tresses so feral, but left it hanging free all the same. Even the little rope that she uses as a belt is gone, the oversized tunic hanging freely to past her knees, swallowing her minute form in the rough-hewn fabric. Tunic and leggings—she did not wear anything else, lest she needed to be searched, and that would be less like a rock being thrown in the lake and more like an avalanche of boulders.
Forward she goes, one bare-footed step at a time, shoulders back in her resolution. No choice, no choice, no choice but to do what was the only choice. "She is g-g-going to put Constables on you. If we b-b-bring her Soodsy, she won't. They'll lock you in a cupboard. I - I d-d-don't want that. Will I tear the City to pieces?" The long-fingered hand reaches up to rub her breast, just above her head, a place that ached in particular when she thought and thought upon it, almost bitterly, though the ache was melancholic. Sad. She knows the City—knows it. Remembers it. Some do not. Some have recollections, vague as a whimsical daydream, but she remembers it. Bled into it to take a small part of it, to make herself a home.
It is a blur, the next hour, two hours, three--she does not remember as it is something she cares not to remember—ever, the questions, the answers she does not remember giving, if she gave them at all. Some of the Constabulary knew of her already, so it would make it easier to fill in paperwork of things she would not answer. Until the one question that she just does not seem to have an answer for:
Why are you turning yourself in to us?
The why is hard, and she swallows over the lump in her throat, hands folding over the pit in her stomach. Why is she turning herself in? Why is she seemingly admitting to guilt? But she was not—she was not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty.
“I will-I will not…I will not…incriminate. Myself. I will not incriminate myself,” she finally says, looking down at the floor, at the tips of her bare, pink toes. The clerk at the desk stared at her overly long, a hard look meant to unseat and make one squirm, but she is not there to unseat and squirm. She is there to protect that which she loves and holds dear.
They let her keep her clothes—for now, was the stipulation, for she was merely being placed into custody and not actually under arrest. Yet. When they officially placed her under arrest, the gaolor had told her gruffly, she would be required to wear the clothing supplied to her by them. She hears this, but does not respond, does not respond in the slightest for lack of ability with her dry throat and thick tongue. The gaol is dark. Dark and cold, the cells small. They’ll lock you in a cupboard. It was not until the cell door swung open with a creak of metal that she stops in her tracks, feeling the coldness in her bare feet creeping up into her spine, seeping into her limbs. The gaolor nods his head toward the doorway, indicating for her to move. “In y’get, lass. C’mon.”
“Will I tear the City to pieces?” Her breath catches as she tries to inhale deeply, and one foot shuffles forward, steps small and reluctant; there is something to being trapped in a small room with only a door. Just a door, and no other way out. Just…a door. It is cold. And dark. And Mekarie jumps for the ceiling when the door shuts loudly behind her—and she is locked in. The first thread of panic trails down her spine as she slowly walks the confines of the small cell, from corner to corner to corner to corner. Over and over again, pacing, getting to know the confines of her cupboard. The small cot in the corner, it is ignored, pushed away and aside, out from the wall so she can walk around it, and once the walking is done, she goes back to that corner, turning to press her thin back to the cold wall, and sinks down to the floor, drawing her knees up, elbows on either side as she leans her head down to press her forehead to her knees, hands pressed firmly over her ears, eyes shut.
“I want to go home.”
“I will cut yer tongue out if y’so much as whimper, y’little bitch.” Her mouth presses firmly, teeth biting down on her lips to keep them together, so hard that the coppery tang of blood fills her mouth, darker thoughts and memories crawling out of the deeper recesses of her mind, bringing the panic, the despair, the remembered pain that makes her draw her feet up closer to her person, making herself into a small, compact ball of silent misery.