MALONE
kill me softly, your hold on me is somethin' i can't explain.
Malone has learned to accept that he is not perfect. He lacks his father’s seemingly infinite patience or his mother’s sharp mind, which leaves him floating somewhere in the middle of mediocrity. But his brothers and sisters all seem content with his presence as well as his terrible jokes. His own children roll their eyes when he offers up puns. He has seen the way they fight to hide their smile, though, so he doesn’t mind.
Today he needs a break from the crowd of his family despite his immense adoration for them. They are all too strong-willed, too loud for him to comfortably rest. Each thought between the lot of them comes drifting into his head until he can hardly find space for his own. That’s why he wanders to the forest. It feels enough like home without being quite the same - a fact he draws great comfort from.
A chaotic stream of thoughts find their way to him, though, and he lifts his head in search of the source. They sound like things that a bird might think, which strikes him as odd since he doesn’t normally hear their inner monologues. The sound of her frightened trilling draws him closer as he peeks his head from behind a gnarled autumn oak.
“Oh. You’re not a bird at all, are you?” he asks, not realizing she had been only moments before. His own golden wings lift slightly in an unintentional mimic of hers. Malone steps further out from behind the tree while his dark blue eyes examine the ruffled feathers and scrapes along her skin. He recalls his father teaching him to fly and earning similar wounds.
“I used to practice in water at first. Or snow,” he offers with a shrug.
Today he needs a break from the crowd of his family despite his immense adoration for them. They are all too strong-willed, too loud for him to comfortably rest. Each thought between the lot of them comes drifting into his head until he can hardly find space for his own. That’s why he wanders to the forest. It feels enough like home without being quite the same - a fact he draws great comfort from.
A chaotic stream of thoughts find their way to him, though, and he lifts his head in search of the source. They sound like things that a bird might think, which strikes him as odd since he doesn’t normally hear their inner monologues. The sound of her frightened trilling draws him closer as he peeks his head from behind a gnarled autumn oak.
“Oh. You’re not a bird at all, are you?” he asks, not realizing she had been only moments before. His own golden wings lift slightly in an unintentional mimic of hers. Malone steps further out from behind the tree while his dark blue eyes examine the ruffled feathers and scrapes along her skin. He recalls his father teaching him to fly and earning similar wounds.
“I used to practice in water at first. Or snow,” he offers with a shrug.