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I’m angry.
Not because of those two present, nor at myself for so clumsily revealing myself. No this anger is an old one, a black, rioting mass of hatefire deep in my belly. It’s an ugly thing healed and made new over and over; because every so often I scratch and peel at it until it is raw again. I poke and prod at it, stirring the muck from the bottom so that the waters are never still or clear. I’ve done this so many times, and I’ve nursed it so long, that it now has a life of its own. I can no more be rid of it than I can of a limb or a lung; or these damned powers that are, ironically, the very source of much of my anguish.
She can’t know it - rather, it’s always a possibility in Beqanna, but I well know the sensation of someone invading every corner of one’s mind - but it’s this black anger that lashes out when the first mare snakes toward me. She demands something from me and I will not give. I pin my ears, nostrils clenched, teeth clacking on empty air as I snake my neck back toward her in return. I shift my weight on sore knees and wring my tail in agitation, eyes narrowed to disguise my rattled nerves.
I’m still glaring at her when the other asks if I am ok, catching me off guard. I turn to look at her with surprise, the feeling followed quickly by suspicion. In my experience, they never care if you’re okay for your own sake; ulterior motives are always there, lurking beneath the surface of a smile that doesn’t reach the eyes and a well-worded bit of sentiment. I scowl again. Now that I know the possibilities that life holds when one is untethered and becomes a steward of their own destiny, I’ll not bend. Not in mind, nor body or spirit.
“Go away!” I think, full of discomfort and that unsettled feeling that comes with having your sanctuary disturbed. But, “I’m fine,” is what I say, my tone curt, clipped. I glance back toward the dark one, the she who called me cub. My youth was long a weapon against me, shackled by my perceived helplessness and naivete. It’s because of this and, ironically, my youth, that I cannot appreciate the moniker and instead take offense. “Why are you here?”
Not because of those two present, nor at myself for so clumsily revealing myself. No this anger is an old one, a black, rioting mass of hatefire deep in my belly. It’s an ugly thing healed and made new over and over; because every so often I scratch and peel at it until it is raw again. I poke and prod at it, stirring the muck from the bottom so that the waters are never still or clear. I’ve done this so many times, and I’ve nursed it so long, that it now has a life of its own. I can no more be rid of it than I can of a limb or a lung; or these damned powers that are, ironically, the very source of much of my anguish.
She can’t know it - rather, it’s always a possibility in Beqanna, but I well know the sensation of someone invading every corner of one’s mind - but it’s this black anger that lashes out when the first mare snakes toward me. She demands something from me and I will not give. I pin my ears, nostrils clenched, teeth clacking on empty air as I snake my neck back toward her in return. I shift my weight on sore knees and wring my tail in agitation, eyes narrowed to disguise my rattled nerves.
I’m still glaring at her when the other asks if I am ok, catching me off guard. I turn to look at her with surprise, the feeling followed quickly by suspicion. In my experience, they never care if you’re okay for your own sake; ulterior motives are always there, lurking beneath the surface of a smile that doesn’t reach the eyes and a well-worded bit of sentiment. I scowl again. Now that I know the possibilities that life holds when one is untethered and becomes a steward of their own destiny, I’ll not bend. Not in mind, nor body or spirit.
“Go away!” I think, full of discomfort and that unsettled feeling that comes with having your sanctuary disturbed. But, “I’m fine,” is what I say, my tone curt, clipped. I glance back toward the dark one, the she who called me cub. My youth was long a weapon against me, shackled by my perceived helplessness and naivete. It’s because of this and, ironically, my youth, that I cannot appreciate the moniker and instead take offense. “Why are you here?”
mercy! sooo sorry that took so long, life has been kicking my behind recently
@Nocturnéa @Famkee