bellum

Enyo is all sharp edges, from the cut of her structured power suits and the stiletto shape of her nails, to the point of her heels that beg to dig into something softer than the concrete jungle she roams. She is a panther, slinking through life, leaving devastation in her wake. From painted lips she spills her words, never minced, for she demands that you understand her the first time. There will be no repeating. She is the sound of cracking knuckles, the smell of a burning building. She is made of bubbling fury beneath smooth skin that runs a little too hot for comfort.

Isadora is, unknowingly (for now), a direct mold of her ancient self. Her presence demands respect because she forces it to. That is the only way she can make it in the male dominated world she has found herself in. Every moment she spends in the presence of others she spends observing them, searching for those achilles heels she can take advantage of. She’s always been this way— growing in a household where a smack on the back of the head was practically a form of greeting can do that to a person. Foster homes were a war in itself, especially those that she grew up in. Sisters or brothers, it didn’t matter. She found herself fighting more often than not for a place in the world. An adolescence devoid of affection sprouted thick walls around her that she refuses to break down; there is softness hidden behind them, but it has not seen the sun in decades, so the state of it is questionable.

The list of her enemies would extend beyond the length of a city block, but her friends are few. Hell, she often wonders if she could even call them that. Sure, she may have admitted to that therapist she visited twice that she was lonely before she ditched. Vulnerability is uncomfortable, and she couldn’t think of a reason why she should pay to be any more uncomfortable than she is on a daily basis. Boxing lessons, though? That she is happy to pay for.