10-29-2018, 03:52 PM
Jinn
I had a dream that we were dead,
and we pretended that we still lived
and we pretended that we still lived
She is far too kind, to be so worried for a creature like him. Most peer at him and shrink away in disgust. They see only foul skin and a deathly stare, the trappings of a beast. They do not see the man beneath. For most, death is so black and white. It is difficult to conceive a state in which one is both and one is neither. That halfling state of opposed realms that Jinn so constantly balances within.
He is a dichotomy, truly. He should be dead, but the blood of an angel flows through his veins, keeping his heart beating and his lungs drawing air. She worries that he would kill himself, but she does not know he is already halfway there. Doesn’t know life has yet to cede in this battle over his corpse, nor will life give up her grip so easily.
But still lovely mare surprises him.
That she hadn’t flinched from him had been enough. She is rare, and it is heartening to know he is not so grotesque that there are none left who could look at him without fear or disgust in their eyes. But then she asks if he is in pain. No one has ever asked him that before. Perhaps it had never even occurred to them. But the pain has become so commonplace in his life it is hardly worth noting. He has grown so accustomed to the way his skin will tear. It has become almost automatic to stitch it back together again so that he might appear at least slightly less gruesome.
Would she care, if she knew? Would it frighten her to know how easily his skin can tear away from bone? He considers her silently for a long moment, unsure what to make of this ethereal water sprite. Unsure whether she truly wished to know, or if she was simply being amicable. Finally, he sighs, his gaze flicking briefly away as he murmurs a soft, “Always.”
He does not consider it too much further. Instead, he reaches around, to show her just how grotesque (just how much of a monster) he truly is. His teeth grip a fold of his flesh as he pulls, pain slicing through him as his skin parts easily, sickeningly, from the loose grasp of his ribs. She would either understand, or she would flee in horror. He expects the latter, knowing too well the wretched sight he must make.
Almost without thought, his healing curls through his body, across his skin, repairing the damage he had inflicted so easily on himself. It could mend torn flesh, that warm, soothing light, but it could not bring life to the dead.
He is a dichotomy, truly. He should be dead, but the blood of an angel flows through his veins, keeping his heart beating and his lungs drawing air. She worries that he would kill himself, but she does not know he is already halfway there. Doesn’t know life has yet to cede in this battle over his corpse, nor will life give up her grip so easily.
But still lovely mare surprises him.
That she hadn’t flinched from him had been enough. She is rare, and it is heartening to know he is not so grotesque that there are none left who could look at him without fear or disgust in their eyes. But then she asks if he is in pain. No one has ever asked him that before. Perhaps it had never even occurred to them. But the pain has become so commonplace in his life it is hardly worth noting. He has grown so accustomed to the way his skin will tear. It has become almost automatic to stitch it back together again so that he might appear at least slightly less gruesome.
Would she care, if she knew? Would it frighten her to know how easily his skin can tear away from bone? He considers her silently for a long moment, unsure what to make of this ethereal water sprite. Unsure whether she truly wished to know, or if she was simply being amicable. Finally, he sighs, his gaze flicking briefly away as he murmurs a soft, “Always.”
He does not consider it too much further. Instead, he reaches around, to show her just how grotesque (just how much of a monster) he truly is. His teeth grip a fold of his flesh as he pulls, pain slicing through him as his skin parts easily, sickeningly, from the loose grasp of his ribs. She would either understand, or she would flee in horror. He expects the latter, knowing too well the wretched sight he must make.
Almost without thought, his healing curls through his body, across his skin, repairing the damage he had inflicted so easily on himself. It could mend torn flesh, that warm, soothing light, but it could not bring life to the dead.
