02-14-2024, 10:32 PM
truth is such a violent force
Oh, what a treat a crowd can be.
Hysperia has always devoured attention like a starved child would devour a hot bowl of soup. In a sense, Hysperia is that hungry child, a mere girl harbored deep in the shadowed curves of her ribs. There’s layer after layer of ironclad armor protecting those intimate parts of her, the parts that still love and long and feel loss.
She felt that love—that loss—that longing—so intensely that it weakened her, sickened her. They tangled up her guts into nothing was left of her but a weeping, knotted mess. In some intense moments, she’ll visit the wreckage of that girl, still bloodied and twisted and sobbing. Before she felt sympathy—she tried her hardest to understand!—but now she spits at the child, hysterical and foaming at the mouth.
How could you?! How could you let us get here?! What have you done?!
That is who she is, this feline and hunting thing, this lithe little mare. A broken girl, left to her own devices.
They—the crowd—won’t see who she is. They won’t know of the bones that snapped and snapped and snapped to create the beautiful, hissing creature prickling to join their midst. They won’t know Hysperia.
She slips through the trees, sea-swept eyes trailing over each individual until they stop to linger on the fiery woman amongst them. She stares and stares, heart sweeping upward until it begins to crash. Hysperia always hated beautiful things, beautiful women—they weren’t her. The draw of her plummeting heart brings her as close to the mare as she can get without encroaching.
And then she sees the truly glorious thing, the speaker of freedom. A wicked, wicked grin splits her lips.
So much attention to devour.
Hysperia has always devoured attention like a starved child would devour a hot bowl of soup. In a sense, Hysperia is that hungry child, a mere girl harbored deep in the shadowed curves of her ribs. There’s layer after layer of ironclad armor protecting those intimate parts of her, the parts that still love and long and feel loss.
She felt that love—that loss—that longing—so intensely that it weakened her, sickened her. They tangled up her guts into nothing was left of her but a weeping, knotted mess. In some intense moments, she’ll visit the wreckage of that girl, still bloodied and twisted and sobbing. Before she felt sympathy—she tried her hardest to understand!—but now she spits at the child, hysterical and foaming at the mouth.
How could you?! How could you let us get here?! What have you done?!
That is who she is, this feline and hunting thing, this lithe little mare. A broken girl, left to her own devices.
They—the crowd—won’t see who she is. They won’t know of the bones that snapped and snapped and snapped to create the beautiful, hissing creature prickling to join their midst. They won’t know Hysperia.
She slips through the trees, sea-swept eyes trailing over each individual until they stop to linger on the fiery woman amongst them. She stares and stares, heart sweeping upward until it begins to crash. Hysperia always hated beautiful things, beautiful women—they weren’t her. The draw of her plummeting heart brings her as close to the mare as she can get without encroaching.
And then she sees the truly glorious thing, the speaker of freedom. A wicked, wicked grin splits her lips.
So much attention to devour.
hysperia
