10-29-2017, 03:21 PM
hard liquor mixed with a little bit of intellect
 | Despite having lived with her brothers for the majority of her childhood, Wound was doing well for herself. She’d spent the first six years of her life under their doting protection. They had spent every moment together, curled around one another like gentle kittens. Wound had spent her whole life hidden in the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna, a sob story that was often sung too many times. Her reasoning was different from the common ones. Her family was a mismatched bundle of disorders. Malfunction had been the most ‘normal’ of the four of them. He suffered from occasional seizures when the world grew too loud. But the rest of them - Skid and Smear and Wound - were a bewildering, terrifying combination of saliva and deformed limbs and lumpy skin. They were monsters from their mother, who was a monster from her father. Wound was determined to depart from the shadows her brothers clung so desperately to. She’d urged them to join her into the social world of Beqanna but their stubbornness kept them from truly living. Perhaps once she had made a name for herself, Wound figured, they would join her in the home she would make for herself. She’d left them after six years in their company. It had taken another year before she found herself in the field, ombre forelock swirling against her coffee eyes in the fall breeze. She felt their gazes from the moment she limped into the field. Her undeveloped right front leg (inherited by her mother’s own) cursed her with an awkward gait. On particularly bitter days, she could feel the ache of the movement in her joints, but today it was only the ache of anticipation. Today was the day her life would truly begin. Wound lifted her chin against the shaming expressions of those around her. All they saw was the deformity of her leg (not the way her skin would itch and flake and her eyes would swell around sand, or the way that a cut would bleed for days and render her fatigued and ill if she didn’t cover it quickly) but she would not let that stop her determination. Her face was delicate (a strong sign of the Arabian heritage in her blood) and her neck slender. In truth, Wound was delicately pretty aside from her bum leg. She settled herself on the outskirts of the field. While her bravery was strong, she didn’t feel the need to stand as though the center of attention. Wound rested her hip against a comforting birch tree and watched for anyone approaching. |