You are learning, learning, learning; surely, it’s all you do. Learning so much for you little brain to handle, but it’s doing its best to handle it, I’m sure! For example: You understand, by sheer association, what the term hollow means. Good job, Enny! You know this, surely, simply by analyzing the feeling in your gut--that empty feelng.

That hollow feeling.

You’re hollow, Enyo. (It even rhymes with your name!)

Why are you so hollow, Enyo? There are plenty of things to be filled with, y’know: a crazy, jealous rage at your sister’s bold, vicious, favorable companion, built in the guise of Father’s own dutiful harpies; Ozzy is indeed becoming Father’s shadow, nicely. Or, you could be filled with a stinging, burning shame over that one time. You know exactly what I’m talking about. With the tears and the crying, the honest crying, and the fleeing from danger, so unlike a monster, so unlike your brood. You could be filled with that shame, if you wanted to.

The fact that your pretty tears so easily charmed those adult folk does nothing to diminish the disgraceful nature of your actions—you know this well. So why, little Enyo, do you stalk the lands of your new “home”, where they so graciously “adopted” you, with such a forlorn, empty feeling inside you instead of harboring a prickly feeling of humiliation? Frozen. No, actually, not frozen, because that may denote a reason for your numbness, a focal point, a personality (Ice Queen sitting regent on her Ice Throne). This numbness in you is directionless, sans source, un sens d’ennui qui est parfaitement fixé dans votre cœur. I’m not sure how to fix it, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps this does come from a personality. Perhaps this is just you.

You see something white in the distance, something clumsy bobbling along, and it’s out of boredom that you watch them struggle. Your eyes catch the slimness of their figure, an elegance wasted on hobbled joints; is this a mare? Ah, you don’t have much of a reference for ages. She is bigger, and smells of female--she is a mare to you.
You find her whiteness pretty, even though you know Father detests the splashes of it on one’s form. You are thankful that you were born without that disfigurement, to be born with white markings; Father already hems and haws over the blue of your face, shrugging it off, deciding it’s not too bad, I guess. You can still be beautiful, somehow. You preen at the thought. It’s the only time you feel a thing; when you think about Paaaaapaaa.

You go up to this white stranger, adorned with all sorts of frilly things which, surprisingly, catch your interest. Your walk is sure and smooth, something which may be offensive if it were a gesture you were trying to make. And maybe you are. You aren’t sure yet. “Hello,” you say, breathy and sweet, because you are a little girl, of course, “My name is Enyo. Who are you?” Your eyes are golden and sugary, sparkling at all the sparkling on the strange woman. “Why do you walk like that?” An innocent question, bubbled from the mouth of a babe; who could ever get mad at that?

"talk talk talk"