without your love, without your touch, this world for me is never gonna be enough
thinking about you as if i lost you

The feel of skin hidden beneath a disgusting mass of coarse, brown hair is tainted with the smell of blood and infection that drives her to the brink of madness, tempting her to let go and bare the whites of her stone eyes against the horror that her best friend has become. How long was Amara living at the bottom of the food chain, rolling in filth, draping herself in blood that Sikeax is scared to know the origins of regardless of the wounds that lace the chestnut’s body?
She knows what the word monster means. It defines Hobgoblin well, given to him by both friends and strangers who are left to reside in fear of his mentality. It’s in the look of his eyes, how he so willing builds himself up to appear larger and more aggressive with the change of his wing position, the hiss that slithers out of his jaws over a forked tongue.
He’s the only monster she’s aware of right now, but…
“Amara become monster. Demon. Amara threat. Look, smell.”
A shadow sweeps over the grasses and soon-to-be-dying wildflowers, circling their embrace with red eyes staring down. Images fill her brain where her eyes have lacked to bring anything; keeping them closed seems for the best. She won’t have to look at Amara then. She won’t be forced to stare at the ocean that waits her arrival in a patient way, as if it’ll be ready to take her away whenever she makes the conscious choice to go.
She’s never thought of him as one to lie. He sets things to his mind and works to achieve them without care as of how it will affect anything in his path. He’s as harsh as the world, brutal and cold.
Looking through his eyes, he force-feeds her only the truth. Amara is a creature of nightmare. All the blood, the wounds, the stench of infection, it all adds up. She can see why the Pegasus has led herself into isolation, armed with good reason.  
Amara death. Amara zombie.
Their embrace shatters, slowly releasing Amara from her hold and leaving her friend to question her thoughts. Touching comes off as taboo when haunted with the memory of flesh and bone slipping away from her very existence, threatened with death just because she’d done something she can’t even remember.
Hobgoblin prods with childish curiosity. His interest burns like hellfire, digging into her skin and seeking out new places to cut.
Why was she out here to die? Why was Amara so broken, living on the brink of dead like a walking skeleton?
“I wanted to go back home.”
She can’t think of a home to define, one where these sort of things don’t exist, where she can actually feel safe and not worry about all of the sins that she’s committed in the past and all the ones she’ll surely make in the future.
But she can’t afford to die now, not in front of Amara. She can find somewhere else to die, far away from any prying eyes and leave Hobgoblin to live his life happily, lacking the burden of the weight of her soul.
Amara needs her.
For this very second, she’s got a reason to live.
“You need to let me heal you. You’re gonna die of an infection if I don’t take care of it now. Is that how you want to die?” Her words come out of her mouth like ice, cutting and hateful as Goblin questions her motives for only a second, and proceeds to smile at her attitude. “I’m not going to the one responsible for your death when I could of been the one to stop it.”
“And what a lovely friend you would of made yourself be for her if she was to die at your feet.”


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