I don't offer any other sign of hearing the word slip from Volterra's lips, letting my ears draw back and eyes reach towards the stoic scarlet lost in the brood ivory. I have many options to consider in terms of my response— I could choose to follow along, to plod through his big steps and keep him pleased and call him father. I could steer clear of his wide trail and go my own way, showcase the rebellious spirit that thrives beneath a blood stained breast and deem him, Volterra. Or I could settle into the shadows and speak none at all to the man from whom my sperm came— I could choose silence over keeping him entertained with my sour words, could let him stare deep into a soul he'll never understand (that I'll never let him understand).

I forge my own path, eyes settling on Volterra as the single word falls from my pursed lips. "Father." This was acknowledgement of his role in my creation, but it does not mean I consider him even close to a father figure (or a father). I choose to say the word with serrated edges, sharp and threatening as the syllables are forced from me.

"Teeth can be removed." I tell him simply. They are no permanent fixture in the skull, no eternal object rooted to your gums— they can rot and chip, can crack and crumble. They can be taken out, they are not items of permanence. I am not yet talented enough to know the method of which those wolf's teeth can be removed— eventually I will learn that there are more ways that imaginable, that even the shattering of a single bone, the obstruction of a particular organ, and all the teeth are ripped clean.

Before the foot can fall, the titan rises. He is a mass of black, speckled with desperate snow clumps clinging to taught hide as he frees himself from the frozen caresses of the earth. He shakes himself free of the snow as he steadies himself upon four feathered hooves, my brow twitching as I crane my neck to look up at him (as I always will)— his eyes focus on me as he stands clean and tall before me, a mountain against a pebble. An ear swivels back as I gaze up at him, wishing that someday soon I sprout up to his height so I don't have to feel so damn small, so that I can feel like less of an insignificant speck against something so gargantuan.

"Just wait," is my response to his comment, intentionally harsh as I look up at him with subtly narrowed brows. My ass won't be unfortunately small for long, already promising a future of a thick and sturdy hind end in the way the newest muscle has been layered on. Soon enough I'll only be unfortunately small, as there is no promise of my height ever reaching beyond (or even near) that of my father (or siblings). "The silence, the solitude." The lack of a mentally unwell dam who has uncontrollable, unpredictable urges to strangle me. I could think of a lot of answers to his question, but choose the simplest and vaguest— I'm not going to spill all the juicy details of my turmoil for him (he doesn't deserve it).

Now is my time to take the roll I was unwillingly given, looking sternly at Volterra with a need to catch his attention. I almost want to stomp my little hooves just to make sure I really have it, but stick with clearing my throat in a more passive aggressive manner. "There's a lot we need to talk about." I take hold of the conversation, making sure Volterra knew that I wasn't going to waste my time on him if he decided that taking a child seriously was stupid and instead wandered off, letting his eyes drift and his head bob aimlessly. I wait to make sure he hears my every word and understands that this is a serious topic, bubblegum reaching up to meet his eyes.

"Talk."

kid