shaking like a leaf with every God given night; bruise & jackel

[rapt]

rapt

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

He shudders at the brush of lips to his forehead, and maybe this was worth it, whatever he’s done. The monster gives a command - watch, Rapt - and he does, of course. He watches as the stallion appraises his gift, the golden mare, and there is a hazy shimmer in the air. He is not privy to the exact nature of the Fear the monster presses into her, but he knows the sensation of it.
He watches the mare, the way she shivers, and guilt gnaws at him in rat-bite quickness. Her voice shakes.
Rapt – the stupid boy – does not recognize it as anticipation, a sick thrill, though his own tone has echoed such things. He hears only nervousness, fear, and he swallows, tasting bile and betrayal on his tongue.
His mouth falls open, as if he’ll say something – don’t or wait or stop - but of course he doesn’t.
His own morality is feverish and waning. It falters in the desire to serve.

“Jackel…” he says, softly, but he doesn’t say anything else to her. He looks instead to Bruise.
“What will you do?” he asks. A stupid question. Doesn’t part of him know, already?
I’m sorry, he tells no one, only thinks it to himself, as his knees ache from laying prostrate on the ground, ever ready to worship.

but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever