11-02-2017, 09:56 AM
hard liquor mixed with a little bit of intellect
 | There was no way for her to count the number of times she wished she could have disappeared. For every disgusted stare, mother pulling her child closer, or cold shoulder given Wound had a wish for invisibility. It would be so much easier to push herself into the background - to melt into the tree trunks and fade into the grass - rather than endure the emotional torture that followed her every move. For years she hadn’t been happy in her body. It seemed to be a phase every women went through - dealing with the curves that came with adulthood - but Wound’s unhappiness was more severe than your average teenager. She suffered through the awkward stages of life with a malformed limb swaddled against her growing breasts, and those uncomfortable stares became even more so. She had to hand it to her brothers; they had taught her to raise her chin against the gasps and looks and shunning. They might have been rough on her during the nights she would cry against their strong chests, when her confidence was broken and her insecurity rising like a tsunami. Smear had been especially doting, though his mouth never formed words. Skid was perhaps the most tough on her; making sure she knew her moments of weakness would rise to years of strength. Wound would never be able to thank her brothers enough for everything they had done for her. They all knew how much she appreciated them and how much they appreciated her. There wasn’t anything like the bond of siblings, especially siblings who loved and fought for and raised one another. Her heart ached as she reflected upon her darling brothers. Lost in a daze, she didn’t notice the golden spotted girl until she was speaking. Wound startled at the sound of the other girl’s voice. Her head jerked up, coffee brown eyes scanning over the stranger. It had been a long, long time since anyone had approached her first. An immediate desire to protect herself washed over her head before she realized the other woman had been complimenting her. “I’ve gotten used to the stares,” she commented. Her voice sounded particularly low, though it was smooth nonetheless. “Though it isn’t often someone approaches me first.” Her gaze travels over the frame of the mare, slightly critical. Wound’s brothers often told her about the lack of decency in the social world of Beqanna, no doubt trying to protect their lovely little sister. Their words echoed in the back of her mind as she watched, waiting for some sort of hint at the woman’s intentions. |