02-05-2017, 06:18 PM
Viscera aches a little. She is without gifts (she does not know the story, how the land took from them what was once for granted, that imbued in her DNA are strange and beautiful things). Her own mother is a magician, beautiful in a terrible way, made of too many angles and shadows; and her father is something altogether alien, with his
(its)
strange clicking language, the spines protruding from the back.
She sighs, audible. She sees no reason to hide her jealousy, unsocialized thing that she is, honest to a fault.
“You’re lucky,” she says, “my family is all…gifted, expect for me.”
A confession, made to a nobody in a nowhere place: I am normal.
She’s accepted it, sure, but it doesn’t mean she’s not the more bitter for it, that she doesn’t envy those who are gifted, even if it is in less terrifying ways.
(Wings that shift and change rather than fanged teeth or bones made to walk again. An interesting trick. One that draws in rather than repels.)
She stills watches raptly as the wings transform, to something glinting and hard, to something like gossamer, to a painting of stars. A story was being told, in these transformations, but it’s not one Viscera knows how to read.
“What else can you do?”
She assumes, here. She assumes because all the others she knows (her family, all others, now, fond and distant memories). Her mother had been nigh unlimited in her powers, of course, but even her father spat acid, and Violence once chased her with the fresh-dead body of a rat, a change from usual menagerie of bones.
v i s c e r a
you have blood on your hands, and I knew it was mine