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It is only as the form of a man that you once knew catches your attention, pulls you from a haze, that you realize what had brought you down from your mountain, lured you away from your solitude, your misery still shackled to you like chains. Only as his scent becomes poignant, too obvious to ignore, that you catch a glimpse of his face do tangible memories begin to stab through the fog of your mind. In your instantaneous reaction, you charge towards him, turning pointedly in to him, forcing his steps to stop with what little mass you possess in comparison to his towering frame, chin tucking as antlers press in to the flesh of his chest, his skin forming a tiny crater beneath the pressure of each tine. For a long moment you wait, every fiber of your being taught beneath mahogany skin, itching to make him bleed, to just lean forwards and take from him that which he doesn’t even deserve. For a long moment you remain still, breathing against him, against the tension that grows within your chest, the anger that rages like an ocean storm, graceless, unhindered in its fury.
It pounds against your skull, growing steadily in to a roar until your blood boils and your eyes flutter, your head finally snapping away from him, turning from the bloodlust, your thirst for revenge, that had threatened to make you forget yourself, should you just give in. After moments of silence (moments that you do not dare to count as the tension of your body slowly dissipates, becomes nothing), your head lifts towards his, that same bold, bare anger sharpening the curves of your too-feminine face. “Did you honestly believe I would have let you just walk away with her, let you steal from me my only—let you continue to breathe—“ For all of your anger, all of the words that sit clustered on your pointed tongue, your voice falls short, quivering beneath the weight of it all: of the last fleeting images of her before her body was swallowed by the earth, taken from you only once more; of the bittersweet memories of him, the something that has been lost to you somewhere in the months that had passed like a blur, between all of your self-loathing and fear. “You are,”
Are what? A bastard? A waste of that life that he leads, of space, of meaning, of everything (nothing) that he (does, will always) means to you? Even you in all of your hurt, all of your hatred, are not so cruel as to say these things. “You were,” Your lips purse, mind desperately clawing for the flame of anger, the betrayal and savagery that you had possessed, that he had shown you, even as you feel yourself crumble beneath that gaze, at the feet of everything he is. You know that you cannot stay so angry for forever, despite wanting to; despite wanting to see him hurt for all of the terrible things that he had done. Know that you cannot hate him, not with all the will in the world. It is this that becomes clearer as your resolve burns away, leaving nothing but the ruin of your misguided sense of vengeance. “You were supposed to love me, Mis.” A soft sob escapes you, brows furrowing as you fight to cling to the strength to keep his gaze, so that he might see the wounds that he has left upon your heart, so that you might understand.
“You were supposed to love me; how could you want to hurt me so?”
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if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
