With only the light glowing onto two hands, her gaze goes to them. Starting from the tips of broken, bitten, and split nails to the bones bulging out of every corner... they look tired. Lacking fullness, craving moisture... just shy of 17 years and they look like they have been around for 70. A sigh escapes as this is how they feel as well. Battered, cracked, worn... wanting more than the tedious grueling work they have been slaved to over the years. How useless they are, the thought crosses her mind. The faint light exposes every line and rivet: invisible shame and bitterness hides in their crevices. No matter what outer treatments are beat into her hands, nothing revives them. It's no use. What a hypocrite... well aware that no matter what surface melodies are sung into two overly exhausted appendages, nothing will reach what needs to be nurtured. Silently the knowledge of tending to them herself appears, forcing away the Wisdom of what truly needs to be done. Looming thoughts flood in as she uses one to help the other, using anything and everything to mend and tend the outside; digging and digging into them until they give an ounce of release. It satisfies them sufficiently enough for a length of time until they start to show ware and tear again. Beat and bend them til they look right, these are haunting. A silent scream breaks through a locked chamber however it doesn't change a thing, the position of them covering the tunnel won't budge. This is the how it's suppose to be. My own strength is my own enemy, sharpening it's sword against the ridges of my hidden soul, forever binding itself to the overflowing pains of tattered old core.
