Re: Acta est fabula, plaudite!
Birthdays didn't matters where she came from. They were markers of predictable necrosis, but they didn't move the moribund girl toward anything like liberation. Her society wasn't the kind that allowed women more freedom with age. If anything, it was a subjacent spiral, and the simplicity of youth was replaced by the servitude of matrimony and the duty of childbirth. Women lined coffins with dead infants cradled in their rotting arms, or children lived on without mothers, and it was typic. The price to pay for duty done, and she didn't think progeny was worth commorient.
He thought her repetition silly, and it was fitting, because she thought him silly from head to toe. The apple thief, he didn't understand. He saw a world in colors, and she knew that life was truly a pattern of immutable monotony.
"You don't know fun, silly boy." She'd been seduced, you see, a yellow ribbon around her throat and a man who quoted words about veils and while the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. Dead, she smiled in her box, and she smiled in the pew. She reached for the end of the row as the apple picker insisted she wasn't perished, and she took up the ribbon there and tied it to her wrist.
He edged, and her incisors were nacre-born and glint sharp, and he edged but didn't run. "Run now," she repeated with a sigh. She didn't want to eat him, because he was dull and simple and very silly, but she would if he stayed. She was bored, you see. She was so very bored, and her pretty bowed mouth was a sulk around those albescently dainty fangs.