that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
He feels scrubbed raw—every inch of his skin both burnt and set afire with nerves. It’s like coming alive again but nothing about it is pleasant. He does not feel a rush of adrenaline or the joy of living. It does not fill his lungs with air and the gratitude of the moment. Instead he only feels the bitterness of death that still stains his throat. It isn’t some grand contrast. It’s just horrid and thin and leaves him feeling hollow.
So hollow that he almost does not notice the doe as she arrives. He does though. He swings his head up and his brilliant gold eyes stare through her for a moment before he finally focuses. She is not like the deer that he is used to crawling through the outskirts of Hyaline and by the brilliance of her coloring and the sharpness of her tongue, he quickly deduces that she is not a simple prey run across his path.
“You have no idea,” he manages, his voice unnaturally hoarse. His tongue feels swollen, his throat dry. It feels like swallowing sand with each breath and he wonders if he will ever feel normal again. If he will ever forget the horror of last night. If he will ever feel like just a boy again. He considers telling her more. Telling her that he looked worse just a few hours ago. That it feels like a miracle to be standing here as himself—brilliantly carved of gold and flush with health—when he was anything but the evening before.
But the words don’t come.
They stick in the sandpaper of his throat. The fears and the thoughts drown him and he takes a breath that sounds like a gasp. He doesn’t have the energy to feel anything like embarrassment because of it.
Instead his eyes focus again on her, darken in intensity.
“Who are you?”
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
