The question comes from her charred lips— announced with the tilting of her marred head, eyes staring deep into my existence (I feel barren and uncomfortable) as the question is asked. I should have known that in time it would rear its head, that this ultimate question that I have contemplated in the early hours of the morning would slip off of someone else's tongue one day— and I would be the one to pay for their curiosity. I hadn't spent enough hours in the night contemplating such ideas to even give anything remotely close to an answer— one that would be both satisfactory to the one who dared to ask, and to not reveal enough of my own personal beliefs to become a vulnerable target.

I shrug my shoulders, looking down at her with a blank look worn over my skeletal features (I don't need her pestering me about my expressions when the pressures of this question weigh down my body). I don't know, I don't know why I hate her (I really don't)— why her horns offend me so much and force my stomach into knots and make my tongue swell with bitter distaste. Why the idea of her kind roaming so freely makes me furious, makes me outraged and hurt that such a thing was possible— but at the same time all these feelings felt— false. Like they weren't coming from me, but an outside force (Mother) that firmly crammed them all into my head in a flurry of aggressive motions, stuffing soured ideas and opinions into me. As though someone Mother had beaten them into me, twisted me into exactly what she wanted until I spewed her opinions and theories rather than formulating my own.

"I don't know." I answer simply, shrugging again to emphasize that truly, I had no idea. Mother has raised Sabre and I to cast long glances down upon the inferior races, towards the flighty cowards and horned fools who dare to deem themselves kings and queens with their false crowns (they may believe they are natural born rulers, but they are idiots). And there is no doubt that I do feel something towards them, but these indiscernible feelings of my own hate and Mother's fog up my head, making it increasingly harder to decide whether this deep rooted hatred was my own or hatred built up over generations, passed onto me through each connection of hoof to flesh from mother to son.

So I leave it alone (as alone as I can when a curious child stands before me), hoping that the pitch black babe will drop the topic as quick as she'd picked it up— I had no intentions of catering to her every question. I wouldn't elaborate on my answer either, having no interest in telling her any more than I thought necessary. If she continued to seek out answers, she would find only a snide remark to be shot back at her (as is my specialty)— and I could simply walk away if even then she persisted. I would leave her mid-sentence, her curiosity still itching its way through her gut, clawing and pleading to be satisfied with the release of a barrage of questions that littered her puny head.
"Talk."

kid