jamie
09-08-2021, 03:16 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
Once, he had tried to convince himself that he was no monster.
He knows now that he has always been a monster.
It takes nothing at all to convince her to come closer and the ink-black mouth twists greedily, the freakish yellow eyes briefly glowing a burnt red before dulling back to yellow as he watches her.
And he thinks of Balto and how sweetly the old stallion had caved beneath the gravity of death, the color bleeding out of him and pooling at their feet. How Jamie had kissed his brow and promised him salvation and Balto had been reborn something as dark as the void.
She starts to reach for him and he does not retreat, but the fog stirs, ready to stop her. He had once craved touch because when others had reached for him, they found only empty space. Vapor. The rumor of something. And now? Now he gnashes his ugly teeth at anyone who comes close enough.
(It had been a hard lesson to learn: trust, loyalty, betrayal.
As a creature incapable of love, he had no loved Beyza.
But he had trusted her, he had been fond of her, and she had plunged a blade into his back.)
But she stops herself short and the fog retreats, if only just barely. He tilts his peculiar, featureless head at her appraisal. No fear in it, no. Is it boredom he detects in her tone?
Disappointing, she says and laughs.
And he takes the sound of her laughter and echoes it back at her from the trees, from the mouths of the elk standing behind him. A low din that continues long after she has stopped laughing.
“Where did you come by such high standards?” he asks. He could make himself hollow or not or any number of things in between, but he feels no overwhelming urge to entertain her boredom.
He knows now that he has always been a monster.
It takes nothing at all to convince her to come closer and the ink-black mouth twists greedily, the freakish yellow eyes briefly glowing a burnt red before dulling back to yellow as he watches her.
And he thinks of Balto and how sweetly the old stallion had caved beneath the gravity of death, the color bleeding out of him and pooling at their feet. How Jamie had kissed his brow and promised him salvation and Balto had been reborn something as dark as the void.
She starts to reach for him and he does not retreat, but the fog stirs, ready to stop her. He had once craved touch because when others had reached for him, they found only empty space. Vapor. The rumor of something. And now? Now he gnashes his ugly teeth at anyone who comes close enough.
(It had been a hard lesson to learn: trust, loyalty, betrayal.
As a creature incapable of love, he had no loved Beyza.
But he had trusted her, he had been fond of her, and she had plunged a blade into his back.)
But she stops herself short and the fog retreats, if only just barely. He tilts his peculiar, featureless head at her appraisal. No fear in it, no. Is it boredom he detects in her tone?
Disappointing, she says and laughs.
And he takes the sound of her laughter and echoes it back at her from the trees, from the mouths of the elk standing behind him. A low din that continues long after she has stopped laughing.
“Where did you come by such high standards?” he asks. He could make himself hollow or not or any number of things in between, but he feels no overwhelming urge to entertain her boredom.
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD
@Dretch
omg don't sweat it!!