you made hell feel like home; any

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever His family is gone – not exactly forsaken, but he left them and did not look back, a blind and foolish follower. He hasn’t heard from them since, doesn’t know if they’re dead or alive. He doesn’t think of them, really. Occasionally he’ll dream of his mother’s scarred face and her hopeless smile, but they are not particularly good dreams, and they are quickly forgotten when he wakes. Better dreams are the ones of the monster, of Pollock’s smile, of his gravel-voiced praise. You waited, he’ll say, in those dreams, and Rapt will say yes, of course, yes, yes, yes. He waits still, in a subconscious way. For the monster, for that creature who thought nothing of ruining a young boy. If asked, he’d deny such a thing (he realizes the shame of it, the wrongness of the things he wants), but there’s a truth. He’s always waiting. He’s been waiting for years. Footsteps stir him from his daydreams; he turns to better view the quick approaching mare. He takes her in, the brown and white colors of her, the peculiar cluster of spots below one eye. He smiles, polite, unsure what she wants. He isn’t overly social, his own interactions limited, he doesn’t know how to small-talk. But he smiles. There is that. “Hello,” he echoes. Silence blooms between them and he itches to fill it. “My name’s Rapt.” rapt caius x else