02-23-2021, 01:24 AM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
He has grown accustomed to the lost way they look for him. They hear his voice and always they turn to search for a face, a body. Something to attach to the voice, and yet all they ever find are the two glowing eyes.
Sometimes he hated the looks that flashed across their face—the fear, the want to run, or sometimes the instinctual urge to fight. It used to sting. He remembers when he had been plain, when he had the kind of face that no one would spare a second glance to. He remembers how badly he had wished to share even an ounce of his family’s affinity to the shadows.
What an idiotic wish.
Now he was something beyond just a shadow creature; he was a nightmare with a heartbeat. He was nothing like he had wanted to be, and when she turned to find nothing and then looked harder and found his eyes and her fear along with it there is the faintest pull of irritation at the pit of his gut. Irritated that she was afraid when he didn’t want her to be, irritated at his situation, irritated that if he had never gone into the hellscape of a maze underground he would have just been a regular stupid boy telling a girl hello in the dark.
“No one ever is,” is his flat-toned response, afraid that if he did not erase all of the emotion from his voice that it would come out harsher than intended. He did not want her to leave because he did not want to have to force her to stay. He hated when they made him have to go to extremes to get what he wanted—needed. He tried to keep his hunger and his own self-loathing locked inside, refusing to let it seep into his voice and turn her away.
She asks him what he is, though, and the question surprises him—confuses him, almost. No one had ever asked, and to be honest, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, some of the usual depth returning to his voice; the faint smoke of it, the quiet rasp. “It didn’t come with any kind of instructions or name.” His poor attempt at humor, because when he was normal he likes to think he would have been almost funny; charming, even.
There is a strange feeling coming from her, but he cannot quite figure it out. He did not know how to pick up on emotions that were not anger or sorrow, fear or rage. He did not recognize that the contentment was being directed to him from her, at least not enough to outright question it. But it’s there; a strange kind of nagging that wars against his usual darkness, pressing a finger lightly to it. It’s enough to make him tilt his shadowy head, to seek out her crystal-like eyes. “My name is Torryn.”
Sometimes he hated the looks that flashed across their face—the fear, the want to run, or sometimes the instinctual urge to fight. It used to sting. He remembers when he had been plain, when he had the kind of face that no one would spare a second glance to. He remembers how badly he had wished to share even an ounce of his family’s affinity to the shadows.
What an idiotic wish.
Now he was something beyond just a shadow creature; he was a nightmare with a heartbeat. He was nothing like he had wanted to be, and when she turned to find nothing and then looked harder and found his eyes and her fear along with it there is the faintest pull of irritation at the pit of his gut. Irritated that she was afraid when he didn’t want her to be, irritated at his situation, irritated that if he had never gone into the hellscape of a maze underground he would have just been a regular stupid boy telling a girl hello in the dark.
“No one ever is,” is his flat-toned response, afraid that if he did not erase all of the emotion from his voice that it would come out harsher than intended. He did not want her to leave because he did not want to have to force her to stay. He hated when they made him have to go to extremes to get what he wanted—needed. He tried to keep his hunger and his own self-loathing locked inside, refusing to let it seep into his voice and turn her away.
She asks him what he is, though, and the question surprises him—confuses him, almost. No one had ever asked, and to be honest, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, some of the usual depth returning to his voice; the faint smoke of it, the quiet rasp. “It didn’t come with any kind of instructions or name.” His poor attempt at humor, because when he was normal he likes to think he would have been almost funny; charming, even.
There is a strange feeling coming from her, but he cannot quite figure it out. He did not know how to pick up on emotions that were not anger or sorrow, fear or rage. He did not recognize that the contentment was being directed to him from her, at least not enough to outright question it. But it’s there; a strange kind of nagging that wars against his usual darkness, pressing a finger lightly to it. It’s enough to make him tilt his shadowy head, to seek out her crystal-like eyes. “My name is Torryn.”
torryn
@[Amarine]