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“Shhh, I know baby, I know.”
Rumi coos to the helpless little thing in her arms crying and clutching onto her like a lifeline. She holds her close to her chest, cradling Zoey’s much smaller frame to hers.
Somehow like this, Zoey looks even smaller. Smaller as her shoulders shake. Smaller as her body trembles like a shivering, fearful animal seeking shelter.
“You can’t help it,” Rumi murmurs, voice soft and sweet. Rottingly so. “You’re just so small and helpless, after all.”
Zoey sobs harder, fingers grasping at Rumi’s shirt so tight that the fabric pulls taut. The helpless little thing clings onto her like a neonate. Useless and pathetic. Needing her to learn how to breathe, to eat, to sleep, to live. Needing her warmth. Needing her touch. Needing her.
An itch sparks in the backmost crevice of Rumi’s mind.
“This world—everything is just too big for you.”
Zoey wails, louder now, as the words dissipate into the space between them. Her face buries into the crook of Rumi’s neck as she cries, hiding away from the world. Rumi is all too eager to shelter her, then. Holding her—holding her so, so, so gently. Holding her like a fragile little thing that might break under the slightest pressure. So Rumi holds her, arms tight around the sobbing little thing in her arms. Pathetic and useless.
“It’s okay if it gets too much.” Rumi gently strokes her hair. Fingers card through the black tresses falling over Zoey’s shoulders like spilled ink. Briefly, Rumi’s mind slips to an image of these very same locks wrapped around her fist.
“I know how hard it is—god, I know.”
Zoey cries, and Rumi breaks.
She hates it. She hates it. She fucking hates it when they cry. Not just Zoey—Mira too. She fucking hates when they cry. Those stupid little hiccuping noises and pathetic sobs ringing in her ears as they wail out their grievances and sorrows. She hates it.
Vexation roils in her gut at Zoey’s insistent crying. At the wetness of tears dampening the side of her neck where Zoey buries her face as she sobs. At the way she clings to her chest like a helpless newborn.
Rumi’s lip twitches as she stares at the girl in her arms, a sneer forming at the edges. Zoey doesn’t stop crying, and Rumi finds that she hates the sound of it.
How odd it is—Rumi thinks—how odd it is, especially when she was just reveling in it moments earlier. The high pitched wails, the hiccuping gasps for air like a drowning man—she hates it. Something breaks inside her, clawing at her chest like an animal as something she can only describe akin to pure, raw fury burns through her skin like a cleansing flame.
“But you don’t have to worry about that anymore, okay?”
That’s right. Rumi hates it when they cry. Rumi hates it when they cry because only she gets to make them cry. Because how fucking dare they—the world, everything and everyone in it—how fucking dare they make cry what’s hers. Only Rumi gets that privilege. Only she gets to reduce her beautiful, sweet, lovely girls to useless sobs and tears.
She hates it when they cry. She fucking hates it.
“From now on, I’ll decide for you.”
Rumi murmurs the words into Zoey’s hair, voice full of softness and understanding despite that nagging itch in the backmost crevices of her brain. Each letter curls around her lips and hums into the air around them like a tally mark, like days numbered.
She isn’t lying. She knows, god she knows how hard it all was for Zoey—for Mira—for both of them. How sorry she feels for the life they lived before she found them, before she extended her grace and saved them. If only she could have saved them sooner.
While Mira hardened towards the world around her, Zoey didn't. Yes, she toughened up, but she still held that naivety, that softness, that gullibility. Those eyes wide and full of credulity, the sweetest little lamb.
Rumi would happily be her shepherd.
“Doesn’t that sound nice baby? You won’t have to worry or think about a single thing anymore,” Rumi croons, holding Zoey’s face in her hands and stroking along tearstained cheeks.
Zoey looks up at her, eyes so trusting and sweet, expectant and waiting for the next gospel at this sudden sermon. The poor thing sniffles, a pathetic little noise, blinking away tears as she hangs on every word. An ache settles in Rumi’s chest as she gazes upon the little lamb in her lap. So fragile and willing. How cruel the world was to deal her such an unfortunate hand. How cruel for anyone but her to ever lay a hand on her precious girl.
She's already cried enough. Her poor girl shouldn't suffer anymore like this. She’ll take care of her.
“I’ll decide where you go, what your routine will be, what we’ll do—yeah?”
Something shines in Zoey’s eyes. For the briefest moments, Rumi sees a twitch of her features, muscles curling into something foreign before settling back into something familiar. That pure, unadulterated reverence. Like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Like she can’t believe someone would do this for her. Like a blessing she’s been praying for.
Rumi smiles.
Zoey’s breath hitches, the tears finally stop. Rumi’s grip tightens in a claim. Like a brand searing into flesh.
“Isn’t it better this way sweetie? Letting someone else do all the big, boring work?” she croons, a condescending edge to her voice.
She watches as the words register in Zoey’s brain, the implications and meaning sinking in all at once. Then—and then—Rumi sees it. The shake of her breath, the drop of her shoulders, the way her weight settles deeper onto her lap.
Surrender.
The submission of will to this higher power that promises to take all her worries away.
The words linger in the air like a promise—like a vow—a carving set in stone like a commandment. That as long as she belongs to her, as long as she kneels, as long as she worships and follows, the world will hurt her no longer.
A holy surrender, for all I am is yours, Rumi reads the words written so evidently. Like time slowing to a crawl, she sees it happen, the release, the liberation, the command to lay her life down at the altar as she completely, entirely—finally—lets go.
“Let me take over.”