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03-17-2015, 07:16 AM
och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
[ gurgles it's kind of hard to throw myself back into a mind-set that's two months old but I'm doing my best x_x; ]
Was it deception? Was it lies casting shadows across the ground, where the sun's light could not penetrate his skin and shine through? He could.. he could, if he wanted to..
He could just reach out, and end her, then and there.
He could.
Couldcouldcouldcould.
And that voice whispered it was an accident last time, it can be an "accident" this time, no one will have to know—that voice dredged up too many memories of ice spires punching through chests, cracking and flaking ribs aside, forging a highway to their hearts and ending their motion. He was no angel. He was.. he grit his teeth together. He had walked a demon's path but had taken no oath to remain blind and stupid. He wasn't an angel, but he was going to save her anyway.
Because he could do that, too. He could bend his destructive forces for.. something good; mercy, without the killing. She was a wet rag washed up on the shore and he could've reduced her to a pile of cinders and given her back to the sea—that would've been mercy, too.
You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog.
And so it was that he chose a different kind of mercy, or perhaps it was mercilessness to force her to go on, to force her to make her own choices again. He had taken them from her when he had chosen to prolong her life. Soon, he would give them back.
But when she spoke again in answer, he looked aside, nothing but the shadows of dawn cast across his eyes and face—because he would never admit how her words were a tiny stab in his confused heart, another whisper to feed the poison and the echoes of demon-roars.. more fuel for the fire threatening to consume him. "I'd say my name fits me better than yours do you." It was the kind of pain that was a burning in your throat and eyes, it made him want to clench his ears and spit at her and storm off—but all he did was stare serenely out across the waves...
He found that he could not answer her, because the only words upon his tongue were laced with both pain and anger, forming meanings like do you want me to be the grime-rot skull-face of death and ruin instead? and other things (he doesn't know where they come from—that's a lie, he does, because it hurts when someone steps on your fragile attempts at healing, and changing, and being happy, so fuck you shadow of night, fuck you and your barbed comment), but even in the face of that he was not cruel. One black-rimmed ear flicked, and he channeled the hurt anger masking up the pain into the bird, forcing it further down her body, away from her poor fucking ears.
Who gave a fuck about her ears when she had stepped on his soul.
[ Here @[Shadow], have an over-sensitive Mau <: ]
Was it deception? Was it lies casting shadows across the ground, where the sun's light could not penetrate his skin and shine through? He could.. he could, if he wanted to..
He could just reach out, and end her, then and there.
He could.
Couldcouldcouldcould.
And that voice whispered it was an accident last time, it can be an "accident" this time, no one will have to know—that voice dredged up too many memories of ice spires punching through chests, cracking and flaking ribs aside, forging a highway to their hearts and ending their motion. He was no angel. He was.. he grit his teeth together. He had walked a demon's path but had taken no oath to remain blind and stupid. He wasn't an angel, but he was going to save her anyway.
Because he could do that, too. He could bend his destructive forces for.. something good; mercy, without the killing. She was a wet rag washed up on the shore and he could've reduced her to a pile of cinders and given her back to the sea—that would've been mercy, too.
You did not need to revel in her ruin like a dog.
And so it was that he chose a different kind of mercy, or perhaps it was mercilessness to force her to go on, to force her to make her own choices again. He had taken them from her when he had chosen to prolong her life. Soon, he would give them back.
But when she spoke again in answer, he looked aside, nothing but the shadows of dawn cast across his eyes and face—because he would never admit how her words were a tiny stab in his confused heart, another whisper to feed the poison and the echoes of demon-roars.. more fuel for the fire threatening to consume him. "I'd say my name fits me better than yours do you." It was the kind of pain that was a burning in your throat and eyes, it made him want to clench his ears and spit at her and storm off—but all he did was stare serenely out across the waves...
He found that he could not answer her, because the only words upon his tongue were laced with both pain and anger, forming meanings like do you want me to be the grime-rot skull-face of death and ruin instead? and other things (he doesn't know where they come from—that's a lie, he does, because it hurts when someone steps on your fragile attempts at healing, and changing, and being happy, so fuck you shadow of night, fuck you and your barbed comment), but even in the face of that he was not cruel. One black-rimmed ear flicked, and he channeled the hurt anger masking up the pain into the bird, forcing it further down her body, away from her poor fucking ears.
Who gave a fuck about her ears when she had stepped on his soul.
[ Here @[Shadow], have an over-sensitive Mau <: ]
du lät exakt som ismael.
