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It’s one of those days.
It’s difficult to describe really, without saying something that gives one the wrong impression. No, she’s not sad. No, she’s not lost, or angry, or depressed. Amity knows what those emotions feel like, and none of them are quite right; to use any of them would be a disservice to the word and her own self.
She feels… hungry? It’s one of those days where no matter how much the witch eats, she always feels hungry. Hollow.
See, but that’s not the right word either. Hollow, or empty, they don’t quite represent the thing that she’s feeling.
Resigned, Amity lets out a sigh as she pads her way into the kitchen. It’s late, the sun is far gone, yet she isn’t tired in the slightest. Perhaps, weary?
No, that’s not the word, still.
She unstoppers her trusty bottle of Wyvern’s Claw, pouring the drink into a crystal tumbler. No cheap glasses for a Blight, no cheap alcohol for a Blight; only expensive, dark auburn liquid that’s the same shade of her hair sloshes into the tumbler. Amity pours with a heavy hand, and holds her drink up, studying under the light from the fancy chandelier above her.
Her house reeks with money, from the glasses to the alcohol to the chandelier to the very toilet paper she uses to wipe her ass. Such things would’ve disgusted a younger her, living off of money she hadn’t earned, wallowing in the stench of Odalia and Alador Blight’s riches.
These days, she can’t help but admit it’s more comfortable to cry into a silken pillowcase rather than those cheap synthetic ones.
Titan, maybe she is depressed.
Amity takes a healthy sip of the alcohol, feeling a familiar burn tingle down her throat.
Lonely?
Maybe, but she’s always been lonely. Nothing uniquely lonesome about today over any other.
It’s just one of those days.
She walks back to the couch, gingerly setting her glass on the end table next to her, before sitting and propping her feet onto an exorbitantly expensive and overly stuffed pillow. Amity smiles, a small one that no one will probably have a chance to ever see.
Yes, it’s easier to be lonely when the bed is soft, the sheets are warm, and her couch is cozy.
The witch is still hungry. Not for food really, but she wants to eat to satisfy the craving of being full. She’s eaten enough today, most of the little leftovers lying around in her fridge. There’s a craving to eat, however, because it’s the only way she knows how to be full of something.
Full of food, full of light, full of happiness, laughter, smiles, cheer, joy, love.
But she’s not empty. There isn’t something that she needs.
A rich woman can buy anything if she's rich enough. And Amity is certainly rich enough.
It’s a hollow day. A hungry day. A day to crave, to be lonely, depressed, sad, if one wishes to put it so crudely. It’s none of them and all of them at the same time, a mishmash of things that don’t quite explain the feeling in her chest.
It’s a word that doesn’t exist yet.
Amity taps her chin in though, taking another sip of her drink.
I’ll call it.... Morath.
No, that’s stupid.
It’s a morathful day.
Actually… she quite likes the word, the more she thinks about it. It’s got a certain sense of longing in it.
Maybe I’ll get it added to the dictionary. I’m certainly influential enough.
Morath
more-ath
noun
A feeling of emptiness, sprinkled with a tad of loneliness and a missing of something long forgotten.
“Amity Blight was in a fit of morath.”
Perhaps the Wyvern’s Claw was getting to her head, if she’s making up words now. Certainly, it wouldn’t hurt to go to bed, get a bit of rest before her undoubtedly long day of work tomorrow. Ah, the morathful monotony of day to day living.
When did she stop wanting to live?
No, she didn’t want to die either. Somehow, Amity suspected that dying would be just as unfulfilling as living. It just seemed that was no point to her continued existence. Was she making a difference in the world? Was she making a difference in someone’s life?
Well, I’m not her.
Oh… Luz. I know wherever you are, you’re making a difference in the world. You’ve always just been that way.
Now, Amity was an honest woman, and she’d be lying if the human didn’t hold a special place in her heart. Even after the many years, nearly two decades now, she still missed her. Something, an important part of her, had been stuck in the human realm along with Luz when she stayed there to keep the portal from Belos.
The grief had been nearly overwhelming for her at first. A poignant loss, something actually tangible that had been so suddenly snatched away. Amity had cried and screamed and stared in shock at Eda when she broke the news, she’d punched and kicked and hurt so violently.
She knew grief now. She knew the anger and the denial and the hatred and the tears and the unbearable loss of something uniquely precious. She knew what it was like to have the whole world ripped from her fingers.
She knew what it was like, now, to clutch onto precious memories; the only things she has left of Luz.
There was love there, painful and raw and real, which is why she supposed it hurt so much. The human never knew, but Amity did; she knew. She knew of that love, and cursed Titan for the hurt it brought her.
As all things, the love she holds for Luz has softened around the edges, becoming softer and less biting. Faded away in its dramatic intensity.
The witch takes another sip of her drink, this time draining the tumbler of its contents.
Hmmm.
The memories don’t hurt so much now.
It’s better that way, she thinks.
Still, there’s a part that misses the simple exuberance of her childhood, that simple pleasure of living life during her fourteen summer. Living freely, joyously, with the person she thinks she loved the most.
Loving violently, without boundaries or rules, the best kind of love, where it was pure and good and fulfilling.
But loving like that is for children, young people who don’t know any better than to throw themselves into the sea and learn to swim, lest they drown. A childhood love, a first love, untainted by any preconceived notions of what it’s supposed to feel like.
That’s why everyone remembers their first love, and love isn’t quite the same after that.
Amity doesn’t know if she remembers how to swim.
She’s not quite sure she wants to swim anymore.
What is love, anyway, if not lived vicariously through the throes of childhood passion? What is love, if not only for the pure-hearted, those who don’t yet know what the feeling of loss and helplessness is like? What is love, if not for the lion-hearted, those who are brave enough to wrestle with the waves for it.
Amity Blight is not brave enough anymore. She’s tainted by the years she’s spent in this world, alone.
Life is cruel.
There’s an aloneness, but not a loneliness in her life. She’s alone, but she doesn’t crave the company of people anymore. The only one that she wants around is the one person who can’t be here.
Anyhow, love is better lived vicariously, in the hearts of those brave and pure and good enough to seize it. Not in her morathful self, where she refuses to talk to anyone enough to become close to them.
Blights have never been good at loving, regardless.
She shifts in her spot, setting the glass down absentmindedly next to her. It’s just one of those days, where everything seems especially quiet in the world.
She’s tired, now.
Maybe she’ll go to sleep.