and let me kick you off a bungee

It is the thundering of heavy hooves that keeps me from falling apart entirely, from collapsing into the sands and despairing there, where no one would give my crumbling body a second glance, doomed to be forgotten again and again. I would melt away into the sands and flora, consumed by the earth and churned about beneath layers of debris as time passes and I fade from everyone's mind. I'm sure even Momma would forget about me in the elapsed time, only her cursed womb remembering the pain of bearing such a terrible mistake.

And he is there, closing the gap between us on fiery wings that burn in radiant reds as he descends, crashing to the ground in a haste to get to me, the worry evident in the distorted colouring of his figure as he hits the ground in an unsteady landing— he rushes to me without hesitance, unhindered by the inflamed joint from his amateur landing, the distance eaten away by his need to comfort, carrying his bulky figure towards me on a drive to take me home. "Apa! Apa!" My void is broken, torn from me by my untamed emotions as I reach my nose out for him, needing that reassuring feeling, to be reminded that he really is here, and that I am not alone and only imagining his illuminated figure rushing towards me. I am left gasping and shuttering as he finally wraps himself around me, hiding me from the threatening world around us as he coos softly.

I wish I hadn't been swept out of the Throat, hadn't had to live outside of its borders for a time that seems disproportionately long, washing the scent of the burning sands from my hide with time spent wandering a world I did not know. I bury my face into his side, taking in the familiarity of the Throat and him, left with my mouth hanging open as I draw in stabbing breaths and feel my sockets burn with the tears they cannot cry. "Miért, apa? Miért?" I can feel the panic settle, the uncertainty of whether or not I belong within the Throat or not— why do they not want me? Why have they cast me out, at such a young age? "Talán azért, mert csúnya vagyok?" I whisper, worrying that my appearance has deterred them, that they have looked down upon me and grimaced at whatever state my face is in. Can they not stand to look at the reality of madness? Why must they hate me?

"Gyűlölnek engem, apa!" It's a quiet but violent cry, one that seeps emotion I could never display otherwise, voice cracking as I panic over my abandonment. I cannot be left alone, cannot become my mother— I cannot be left to my own toxic thoughts, to the venom lurking in the back of my mind, threatening to ruin me the moment I can no longer find a figure in my field of vision. It ruined her, and it will ruin me, strong minds do not run in the family (not on her side).

I do not know where Momma has gone, knowing that she left long before the Throat turned its back on us. "Nem tudom, talán az Spectral Marsh? Azt hiszem, ő szereti ott." I do not know why she is so fond of the Marsh, why its mysterious return has her in some sort of trance that cannot be broken, lost to the wonders of the eerie marsh and what it holds. I think she was hoping to find something there, find herself there. But in the process, she has lost me.

-- @Volterra