As lightning flashes, I can see that I have not removed her snowflake, but I have sullied it and darkened it. I have twisted something beautiful and organic into something dirty and easily overlooked. I have smeared art, with finger paints, and it feels good.
I can hear her begin to scream yes, and I fancy that she is as enthralled with the metaphor that my action represents as I am. Is she hated too? Is she weak, and ignored, and alone? Does she feel the elated sense of self importance at the sight of her dirtied and wounded brand? TAKE MY WINGS, I almost scream. Somewhere deep inside, I think I might have - although there are no words. Just a guttural and pathetic sound that is close to hysterical. Perhaps if we shed the reminders of our parents - her snowflake and my embered wings - we can be free of our shackles. We will have our own scars, not those of our parents. All of this I mentally attribute to her, these mirrored feelings and sentiments.
I laugh amidst the thunder and the rain, feeling sweat and water drip into my mouth.
We will tear each other apart and be reborn.
I scramble backwards as she finds her footing. She lunges, and I stretch out my burning wing and then quickly pull it back to my side. She is the charging bull, forced to be here by cruelty. And I? I am the God of the Thunder waving my red cape to taunt her on. She will kill me, and I will kill her, and the crowd will cheer and throw roses.
And those roses will fall to the mud.
I use the motion of my left wing moving towards my body to help in jumping to the right. My legs are long and graceful, and though my hooves do not find purchase easily, I avoid the white bull and her charge. As comical as it would be to kick the bull in the ass as it charges by, ice has radiated outwards and has covered the ground below me. The smear became a bull, and now the bull is jack frost. At first I think there is humour in this, until I realize that she is mocking me. Fury grows and boils in my chest. It fills my belly and rises up, pounding against my chest which is still tight from her kick. The feeling of pure madness froths in the back of my throat as I glare down at the ice.
Ice. To be melted by fire. All of my inadequacies come racing down, taunting me and screaming their insults in every pulse of pain, and in every flash of lightning. Your father could melt me, the ice screams as I stare down at it. Drool, a little blood, and rain pours down my lips as I open them to scream. My throat is raw from the sound, but I don't care. My hooves slam and smash against the ice, attempting to break it up. It hurts my chest to force my forelegs into this rhythm, but I ignore it.
I will not be mocked.
"HOW COULD YOU." I scream, and suddenly I realize just how youthful my voice sounds. I sound like a child whose teddy bear has been mistakenly dropped in the mud, and now I am blaming everyone in the world for my mistakes. Before shame and regret can take hold, I surge after her. There are tears in my eyes now, and my breath has caught in my chest but I swallow it down. White smear will think the tears are rain, and the sound surely cannot be heard over the thunder and the squelch of mud. I lunge for her, moving through the trees to try and come at her left side. It is where her snowflake is, and it is calling to me.
My teeth snag outwards, wanting to taste her skin and whatever texture that snowflake might provide. I can feel my eyes beginning to sting painfully as tears continue to force themselves through, and a racking sob is already forming in the back of my throat.
I am Rhoa. I have made a mistake, and now its gone too far.
WC: 710
Attack: 3/3
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[JUDGED] Let It Wash Away My Sanity [Rhoa Spar]
