01-10-2020, 02:13 PM
risk
He isn’t sure why he makes himself to easy to spot for Sochi and yet he is always sure to leave his mismatched eyes the same as ever. There is so precious little that is familiar to him that her face is becoming a welcome sight, though his trust grows at a snail’s pace. There is always that looming darkness that picks and picks at him even on his best days. It serves as a reminder that anything he enjoys is this world is only momentary. Someday, maybe soon or maybe in the distant future, Sochi will fade from him as well.
And she bites back as expected, though her smile assures him that she has taken his joke as well as he hoped. He feigns a half-hearted glare at her response but he laughs all the same. “Oh I’m certainly searching for death once more. It may just become my favorite hobby,” he says in a voice that drips in oversaturated sarcasm. Perhaps he would not mind if she chose to eat him now that they’ve become better acquainted, he thinks. But what good would a meal be as a willing sacrifice, as opposed to a hunt that is earned?
He lifts his chin to watch as the snow picks up once more. A soft snort of disapproval escapes him before he returns his gaze to her silver eyes for a while. His first death had been quick and he learned that a practiced hunter is a blessing. The younger, clumsy predators will thrash their prey to death and draw out the process. The amateurs have not learned that this sours the meat. But dying slow in the freezing winter? His face wrinkles in disgust.
“I thought the cold might take me when I was first born. My birth mother left me in a den, surrounded by snow, and said it was better that way.” His voice is flat as he forces the emotion out of his voice. Still, he doesn’t know if she meant he would be better of dead or without her. Would it make a difference?
“I would rather be eaten a hundred times.”
And she bites back as expected, though her smile assures him that she has taken his joke as well as he hoped. He feigns a half-hearted glare at her response but he laughs all the same. “Oh I’m certainly searching for death once more. It may just become my favorite hobby,” he says in a voice that drips in oversaturated sarcasm. Perhaps he would not mind if she chose to eat him now that they’ve become better acquainted, he thinks. But what good would a meal be as a willing sacrifice, as opposed to a hunt that is earned?
He lifts his chin to watch as the snow picks up once more. A soft snort of disapproval escapes him before he returns his gaze to her silver eyes for a while. His first death had been quick and he learned that a practiced hunter is a blessing. The younger, clumsy predators will thrash their prey to death and draw out the process. The amateurs have not learned that this sours the meat. But dying slow in the freezing winter? His face wrinkles in disgust.
“I thought the cold might take me when I was first born. My birth mother left me in a den, surrounded by snow, and said it was better that way.” His voice is flat as he forces the emotion out of his voice. Still, he doesn’t know if she meant he would be better of dead or without her. Would it make a difference?
“I would rather be eaten a hundred times.”