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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    My heart is a church of scars // Llorona, any
    #1
    Time is a slippery thing, anymore.

    I remember the cold, and how it made me desperate to be touched. To be made warm by another's caress. Hot skin, hot breath, hot eyes. He was so warm. So very warm. It almost made the pain in my chest worth it. Almost made the voices quiet, for a while. Then he left, and I grew cold again. Inside and out while the winter seeped through my bones and the leaves blocked out the sun. 

    One day I woke up and my belly was huge. Rounded where a sleeping thing hid, and I panicked. Pregnant. When did I become pregnant? Had some monster come while I slept and embedded itself within me? Horrifying possibilities spun in my head while the Voices cackled. My wounded breast throbbed with hard-pounding blood, freshening the dark stains on my skin. No no no no, not again. Not again. 

    The sky lightened. Warm sun that I can barely feel touches my back while I groan in misery. When did I become pregnant? What sort of child will this be when I'm through? I stain the earth with more of my blood, a wash of it that leaves me weak and raw. With my eyes rolled back in my skull, sparks flash in my sight when the pressure gets too much. A scream as old as time itself wrenches through me, and then I'm spent. 

    "Where did you come from?" I ask. Again. I blink mistrustful at the down-coated girl in the edge of my sight. She's black and white and eerily familiar, but I can't put a name to the face. Something about her worries me, and I feel the presence of another. The weight of something or someone unseen. "It isn't safe here..." I mutter to myself. "It isn't safe." My ragged wings flutter anxiously by my sides as I move away from the clearing, only half expecting the phantom girl to follow.

    @[Llorona]
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    #2
    Time is nonexistent; floating of nothingness is all that she knows. The little girl-to-be might subconsciously think that someone whispers to her in her mother’s endless safe space, and she certainly hears her mother’s reactions when nobody else is there to hear. She recognises the sharp, short barks she outs at nothing, the hisses and growls as they vibrate throughout her body and her water.

    But one day the very walls that keep her safe, turn against her.

    A force tightens around her body as nature claims what is natural, and her safe space forces her out. The voices must have stopped, or else she doesn’t hear them in the drumming of a heartbeat, the rush of fluids, the sound of her own blood in her ears. There is the sound of a muffled scream, and then...

    Then the she we’ve been talking about, is me. I’m alive, born from the littlest chance, with even smaller chances of survival and if I do make it, I’m never going to be normal. But in that moment I didn’t know all that; in that moment I tried to find the warmth of my mother, the softness of a tongue cleaning me, the scent of the one who gave me life.

    I smelled only blood.

    For a moment, I lay there terrified. Only then, my mother spoke; it’s not the warmth of her voice that I recognise, for there was none. I know nothing about how it should have been at this point, but I don’t need to. That cold sharp tongue is my mother, and my mother is my home, no matter the amount of holes in the roof - and I love it all the same.

    I follow my homing beacon when she starts to move away, for no other reason than that I recognise the voice and have nothing else to do, and certainly nothing better. I’m cold and wet and ew, sticky - leaves cling to my half bloodied, half slimy body wherever I go - or fall. There must be others around too, I think, or so I hear, but I cannot place the source of the whispers, let alone understand what they are. Confused, one might call the look on my bicolored face as I stumble after the one who birthed me - suspicious might be closer to the real emotion, if I only were able to put a name to that feeling.

    Something is off, and we both know it. I dare not even make a sound when I look at her, try to find her face in this mess of my early life. It isn’t safe here, and I will try so hard to run with her - to not hold her down. I’m certain that her fear is real and justified, an ever-present truth burrowing in my chest as I start to look around skittishly while I move. I make so much noise already in these leaves, and I shouldn’t. Something might happen. Something might come. Better hurry. Silently.

    The whispers will guide us out.

    @[Sabra]
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