ALCINA  DIMITRESCU  IS   A  WOMAN ,   AFFLICTED .  There is an ailment living under her stiff grey skin, something wretched that no amount of smoke, drink, blood, food, or even lavish surroundings will fill. A gnawing pain that is different to the hum drum sear of her joints, her bones. That  pain has followed her since her transformation under Mother Mirandaâs all-seeing eyes.  This pain has dogged her longer still. It has sunk its teeth into her, and shook her roughly like carcass in a beastâs maw. She has ached for success, she has ached for power, she has ached for respectability, for lust, for glory ----  all manner of things. This is different.  At night in her bedroom she wiles away hours in her bed. Often, she cries, sobs, wails  -   SHE !   A CREATURE SO POWERFUL THAT OTHERS HAVE TREMBLED AT THE SIGHT OF HER !  Never before has she felt the hollowness of her own bones, the keening trill of lonely silence, the EMPTY space on her lap, between her extended arms. Paperwork. Hunting. Drinking. No activity is safe from the lung--crushing, mind-swallowing wish that slowly wastes away inside of her. Which leads her to what one might comfortably call a low point in terms of dignity. Alcina has never liked Moreau. He is worthy of respect insomuch as Mother Miranda is infallible, and if she saw something in him then so be it.  Alcina vaguely recalls that the last time he tried to say goodbye to her from a meeting after a particularly tense bout of verbal brawling with that FOOL, HEISENBERG, she returned his goodbye with a heavy-lidded, cool-eyed :  â Who are you ? â Â
No matter how many stern  talking-tos she delivers unto herself, this old hunger will not abandon her. She has begged  ---  pleaded  ---  with whatever rules there are that govern the world to please, please, please let it drop from her heart like a dead fly. But as surely as she hears her pulse, she feels that miserable, inescapable yearning. It is extremely beneath her dignity to traverse over to his dingy, dank, mangey little hovel. To be confronted with the overwhelming smells of salt and wood-rot. To see his woven-flowered shawl, his lumpy, disfigured face, to not spit about how she was a finer specimen, and his presence was a LET DOWN to the woman they both served as Mother.Â
     (( The horrible thought that haunts is this                    Â
       â  SALVATORE MOREAU  !  â  Her tone is exacting, clear, business-like. It must be. If not, she fears it would shake and betray the pain she is contorted into. She is far enough away yet that she must call over to him, but approaching fast on black heels that would sink or stumble over this uneven ground if not for the fact that her desperation has lit her up like an electric charge, propelling her forward.   â  I have something to discuss with you !  â                                          I NEED TO BE A MOTHER.               I WOULD MUTILATE MYSELF.  I WOULD DO ANYTHNG.                                 I WANT A CHILD. ))
@wretchedwaters is beautiful xxxx
