11-08-2017, 08:29 PM
hard liquor mixed with a little bit of intellect
 | There’s a drastic difference between purposeful frightening (when there’s some sort of enjoyment gained, whether from the scarer or the scared) and unintentional frightening (when there is fear struck deep in both hearts). Wound wishes for the type of terror that would end in giggles, maybe with her own children snuggled against her belly. She often dreams of that; dreams of stepping from the shadows to startle her family, to tickle their ears, to draw them close at the end of the day when the darkness grows and the sun sleeps. With her brothers to protect her, Wound never had the chance to encounter other boys her age. Malfunction, Smear, and Skid all whispered to her about the devilish thoughts men might have regarding her, though they never had those ill-intended thoughts. But as she grew older, Wound felt the deep longing to have someone’s arms wrapped around her waist, or her belly to be full with a child formed out of affection. It would all have to start with an end to those disgusting glares. Wound knows it might take her a long, long time before she finally finds the right partner, but she’s hellbent on eventually coming across him. In the meantime, she will stick to her guns and ignore the curled lips, angry eyes, and nervous children. Wound’s ears flick toward the other woman’s voice. A tingle of interest spikes at the edge of her mind. It interests her how perturbed the fanged mare is that others would gape and stare all day long. She mentions that having to seek others out seems rather unfair and Wound’s shoulders are rolling into a nonchalant shrug. “I truthfully don’t get out much,” she comments. The next sentences surprise Wound. She feels a flutter of hope deep in the belly of her stomach and it nearly takes her breath away. She had never been invited anywhere - let alone offered someplace to call home. She stares for a blunt moment, as stock still as a deer listening for danger. In truth, this might be what it is. Danger. Could the fanged mare just be calling her into a trap? Could she just be beautifying an ugly trap to ensnare her? Could she be leading her to a place of ridicule, of destruction, of self-doubt? Wound has been the first of her family (from her mother down the line of her three older brothers) to step out into the ‘real world’ so to say. Yet they had all whispered of being experimented on, of being tortured with teasing, of being judged. Wound regards the woman with blantly critical eyes. Would she rather stay here and feel the prickle of judgemental eyes on her back? Or would she rather adventure into the shadows of unknowing? Although her bravery had waned slightly, Wound suddenly remembers the reason she came to this field anyway. She’s looking for a new beginning. She’s looking for a purpose. She’s looking for a family that doesn’t flow through her blood. “I would like to see this… place.” |