02-12-2017, 06:27 PM
She barks a laugh that is not quite bitter. Her family was a brief moment on a mountain, where stories were shared, where Violence brought forth bones and made them grin and dance.
“I wasn’t wanted,” she said – she, too, is forthcoming here, because she does not care to regulate herself, she is a blunted object, unrefined, uncaring, for she has never had anything to care about, never had enough dignity to worry about tarnishing it.
“I would have preferred not to know them at all,” she says, which is half-true. She can’t imagine a world without her mother’s strangely-angled face, beautiful and hideous all at once, her father’s clicking language that Viscera’s dumb ears couldn’t decipher. What would she be like, without those memories?
The mare says I can show you and Viscera steels herself for pain, because pain seems a commonality amongst the powers she knows. But instead, there is a tingling feeling that is not altogether unpleasant, and small bruises fade, a small, scabbed cut on her leg closes for good.
“Amazing,” she says, because she is not used to magic used like this, she is used to chaos and bloodshed, shadow and bone creatures.
And better, the feeling of healing. Of being reshaped, made complete. An addicting feeling.
So this is why she ducks her head down and tears at her own skin, rips at it with blunted teeth not meant for such acts. She breaks the skin of her shoulder, tastes blood on her tongue, coppery and rich. It’s not a devastating wound by any means, but it’s larger than any borne before.
“Do it again,” she breathes, then, being polite, adds, “please.”
v i s c e r a
you have blood on your hands, and I knew it was mine