[open] i'll make a beast out of myself

[munroe]

Caught here in a fiery blaze, won't lose my will to stay
No oasis here to see, the sand is singing deathless words to me

The crisp morning breeze is accompanied by the sounds of bird song and the rushing waters of the river nearby. There’s a light drizzle that continues to coat his fur and his ears flicker irritably whenever a particularly large droplet lands on one of them. He treks doggedly alongside the river banks with a single intention – to find shelter amongst the branches of the gigantic oak that dwarfed the nearby smaller copses of trees.

There he could find a dry and secure spot to wile away his morning.

Munroe found he spent most of his time as a cat nowadays. He doesn’t remember much of his youth – only vague faces and voices occasionally swim through his memories. But he does remember that powerful feeling of fear and helplessness he had experienced as a newborn. Taking the form of a predator seemed to give him some feeling of security and some peace of mind.

Most importantly, this form allowed him to stealthily avoid others for the most part. He’s never yearned for companionship - the thought of strangers coming into his personal space instantly raised his hackles. Trust was hard-earned and if one wanted to survive then it could never be freely given.

There was a time he had trusted. A land that was full of stinging sands and golden as far as the eye could see. Big golden wings that enveloped him with a motherly embrace and sweet lullabies that soothed him to sleep – Ima.

The rain begins to pick up and he quickens his pace towards the large oak he can see within a short distance. Once his paws hit relatively dry dirt, he heaves his body into a quick shake and flings droplets of water onto the ground. Munroe raises hazel eyes to pinpoint a branch that would feasibly support his weight. Pausing to judge the distance correctly, he swiftly scales the large tree trunk before settling comfortably onto his haunches.

He watches the downpour and ignores the disgruntled songbirds that were forced to perch higher up amongst the crown of the oak. Softly, he hums a lullaby under his breath – one he couldn’t seem to remember the words to.

MUNROE

the lost wild child of nowhere