The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of Time (6|4)

(№6.4)

Her husband grew into the shape from an esteemed and worshipped figure in their village (mostly for the impulse of vast friction and the burning desire to flee where he went) to a lone and left-aloof outsider, since the dacians committed all kinds of immoral and brutal crimes days in and days out, but killing such a life-sprawling, magnificent wife for a woman, not even for the reasoning of her looks being despicable, which they clearly were not, was deemed unofficially unforgivable by his fellow countrymen and he paid this with complete isolation in dismaying solitude, his anger which made him strong had turned him weak, as society, companionship was strength, a strength boarded up and concealed to him.

He stole many wives from many other towns, like the awful disgusting cheating swindler he was and his wrongdoings were never discovered, for he was perpetually careful to not stir a crowd of routs beckoning at the door of his forfeited cabin, barely not swinging in the rhythm of the wind whenever a breeze came spiralling.

The women were always unwilling to stay, yet being his prisoners forced to serve him had not much of a say in this matter. To all their astonishments, disregarding whatever precautions he had taken to have them caged, they always got away, they were normally apt enough to run and flee, not without shattering grands of his belongings and cutting his nets, all driven by vicious female ferocity and rage that not usually didn't seem to be stemmed of them, but another empowering power, a spirit nearby gladly sustaining the downfall of the women's captor.

And for those not profusely meticulously able to escape, the ones he mutilated too soon in fits of anger, there was always a rope and a stool nearby, a helping knife or a metal rod conveniently rolling around.

Two hung themselves, three slit their throats and five felt possessed to hit themselves over and over again till the blood dripping and sizzling to the ground was a mortal quantity and yet another gloomy pit of blood had stained the grounds of his home.

If this thick-boned lout learned any lesson of value, it was to not err the same as his daughter grew and rather let her have her partial freedom: He parented as she was a dog with chains on her ankles, so she might run and jolly around, but boomeranged also back to him, as the da would mature into night.

When she was younger, he taught her a few things to strengthen their bond, he could pretend to be warm and soft with her, even held her hand when she killed her first rabbit at the age of six and ushered her with mean eyes to skin it still moving in its muscular spasm. If he taught her one thing over the years, it was to be ruthless. And that was all influence she could grasp from, the only ideal pictures in her eyes to be attainable, over the years. 

The women he stole in the beginning were not too eager to tend to the spawn of the brute who'd detain them.

And in other aspects, she grew up exactly as one might think of a motherless child;

The stench of salt and kelp bound to her skin for as long as she would live, for there was no one to remind her of scrubbing or cleaning her face, her skirts and gowns of muslin, damp and clinging to her body from the sprawling water echoing of the cliff sides where she usually played, almost never out of eyesight of the grave of the mother she knew nothing about. Skirts in defiant cracks and fissures, for there was no quick and talented hand to patch them. Her extremities enlarged in size, her statue began to fill out, her hair having lost zest of beginning curls was as straight as the turned horizon line of the sea and darkened a stab in colour, from precious gold to a slightly dulled brown-gold, muddied how it was firstly dug out of the soil, needing handsome polish and heinous care-taking to glitter anew. Though no hand remained to polish such crude beauty.