The Heartwood two

unraveled. 
it happened swiftly, a tight, self-inflicted spiral of hate and pain and rage unlike what she'd felt before. anger was familiar, this all-consuming rage was not. in her childhood, exhaustion would ebb away the anger, would soften the hate. but it does not come, now, and she is faced with all the rage in the world. 

at her father.
he'd left them. he'd left them, and left them again, and then he'd gotten himself murdered, ripped apart and left to rot on the lakeshore. they needed him, desperately, and he'd fucking died. 

at her mother.
unwanted. unneeded. why had she brought them into existence, if only to abandon them? she'd been distant, she'd vanished time and time again, she'd chosen them and then everything possible over them. she'd abandoned them without a word, reforged herself a new family, and just as easily cut them from her life. 

at herself.
worthless. not enough. not there. poison. the most fevered hate of them all, directed tightly inward, unrelenting. she does not know what to do with all her hate, and all her rage.