I am a feeble attempt of happiness, a desperate hand shoved into the swirling tides that make up love, something of an affair that bloomed into commitment, a tragedy that had only just begun. I am the creation of naivety and youth, of eagerness and hormones, an impatient seed to unready earth, planted out of season and left unattended. I am produced by amateurs, by inexperienced gardeners who pat the soil with rocks and unclean hands, who pour too much water and plant the seeds too close, who cannot tell between good soil and plain shit. I was born incomplete, sprouted into this world when I was barely ready, far too close to the surface, for when I rose I brought ruin to the soil. 

My life is nothing, it will always be nothing, not to me, perhaps to no one. I will wander this earth, nomadic and forgotten, solemnly dreaming of days where my name would reach the borders of someones mind, anyone's mind. I wanted to be remembered for something, anything, I didn't want my face to fade, to become a distant memory that you cannot discern from a dream. I wanted what I could never have, what I did not deserve. I wanted happiness, warm, quiet nights spent beside someone who held tightly to my heart as though it may reveal the secrets of life to them. I wanted genuine smiles, unintentional laughs that sprouted from simply seeing the one that I loved, of pain in my gut from laughing all too much. I was an idiot, pushing away everything that was given to me that could lead to those dreams, that opened the gates to a better life all because I listened to the deepest hollows of my troubled mind. 

It hurts, it hurts to do this, to lose myself in my emotions like a balloon to the wind, wanting to cry because I'd let myself go when I should have had a tighter grip. I had intentionally hurt someone I'd cared so much for, whose acceptance and love I sought out like a blind child seeks its mother, hands out and eyes shut tight because I am too much of a coward to face the world and its demons. I'd done this all to myself, running from everything that moved because I'd been beaten by my demons over and over, I'd watched them wash over me like waves of a storm, letting them shake me around and beat me down until I was rooted firmly to the belief that I was worse than the shit beneath my feet. 

Sikeax talks again, a reaction to my words that I expected. She was blunt, harsh, and I accepted her words. My eyes cannot meet hers, cannot hold the embrace of cerulean while the haunting pressure of her words brings me down, smashing my walls and breaking down my barriers with but a few syllables. She shows strength, potential to bring me into further ruin as I stand before her, waiting for her to say more, waiting like a pig to slaughter. I anticipated more than that, I expected harsher words that would blow me into oblivion with the force and emotion pushing her points, her articulate attacks hitting my weakest areas. I don't speak, keeping my mouth shut (can't talk unless mommy says so, mommy might get mad). 

I took this time to watch the interaction between mother and child, to stare blankly at the foreign bond that was formed the instant the child spilled from between its dams legs. How could one love something that had brought them suffering. who made them bloated and sick and weary, who could not control its cries nor its bladder. I watch with timid fascination, feeling otherworldly in the way Sikeax interacted with her son, nurturing and softer than down, calling to him like he would flee if she was all too loud or firm, speaking in a gentle voice that sounded so foreign to me (I miss my baby, please bring him back to me. Bring him back, I need my son, I need to know he's alright). 

"Amara, listen to Sameira." I reach out for the familiarity of my bond, only now realizing that I missed the feeling of you at my side, a subtle reminder that perhaps I wasn't as hopelessly alone as I'd like to believe. "You are being fool, listen to Sikeax. She cares for you, Amara. She has given you many opportunity to be happy, to find help. You are being selfish, Sikeax is right. Sameira thinks that you need to tell her you are very sorry, you should not have said those things. Bad things. Bad Amara. You take it all for granted, you think you can stop getting hurt and stop hurting others by shutting it all out. Stupid. It is natural to get hurt, you should be expecting pain. It is in- inevitable. A part of life, what makes Amara, Amara. You have made Sikeax upset, and even though Sameira do not know what bond there is between mother and baby, Sameira know it is important. Because you did not receive this comfort does not mean baby of Sikeax should not. Sameira is hurt too, Amara. And Sikeax. We are hurt, and it is because you cannot accept help when it is given, because you have a distorted image of yourself. Do not bottle emotions up, cry Mara, cry because you are strong, not because you are weak." 

I can feel it, the threat of brewing tears that have been building up since this began, of your pain stacking atop mine, of our endless cycle of hurt (I won't get hurt, I know because there is no one to hurt me). I realize Sikeax has started talking again, has started recollecting on times she has offered me shelter, offered me healing (How again did we get hurt brother, do you recall? I do not, but I know it hurts. It smells most awful.) and love, she offered all that I needed, that I wanted and I turned her down. I was pitying myself, moping like a brat whose parents had confiscated their toys because they had misbehaved, with a pouty lip and false sense of innocence. Maybe I was selfish and stupid because I could not accept that anyone could love something like me, turning a blind eye to everything people offered with calloused hands and sore joints from their labours. I cast away their offerings because I was too stupid to see that I was doing this all to myself, that I was the one who had broken me, the one who had hurt me, my endless torment of avoiding getting hurt by others was futile because in the end it was me hurting myself. 

I never wanted to accept any of Sikeax's offers for shelter under the watch of this humble herd, the one who had rein over the wavering dunes and whose tales of strength were plenty, who braved the harsh summers and bitterly dry winters in favour of staying on this isolated island where their safety was ensured. I was a danger, a feral animal caught in a trap, with sharpened fangs and foaming mouth, whose claws were sharp and eyes were cold, my unexpected blackouts could lead to certain despair. I didn't want to put innocent lives at risk, not when they trusted me and fed me, kept me protected from the outside forces, when I was already a burden to them. 

I had brushed over the subject of Sikeax offering to heal me, to mend my flesh with the magic she had earned through hard work and devotion. I have no recollection of being given such treatment, of Sikeax attempting to heal me and rid me of the pain I suffered (That son of a bitch, I'll get payback on that sick bastard), of the infection that I so hastily forgot about amidst nightmares and anxiety, letting it spread like a plague in a crowd, it became a problem that I still pushed aside so that I could roll in self pity and loathing, so that I could cry and scream out at the shadows. 

"Talk to her, Amara. She waiting for you." I open my lips, feeling my expression fall into distress while I grasp at nothing but empty air, my mind a clean slate at the most inconvenient of times. "I- I can't do it Sia." The nickname surfaces, my shoulders slouching as a sign of surrender, my defeat apparent in the way I let my entire being drop, slumping over like waving the white flag was the more exhausting thing I'd ever managed to do. "I can't do anything right, I'm so stupid. I'm so so stupid. I just— I can't understand why anyone would want to help me, why anyone would consciously offer more than a smile because they pity me, not because they care." Whatever I was saying, I wasn't thinking about it. I was letting the words go, rushing from my lips in a controlled, painstakingly quiet manner. I was uncertain and afraid as a deer crossing the road, unsure of was would become of me. Whether there was a car speeding around the bend, on the path to ending me, or if my trip was to be a safe one with no obstacles to overcome. Maybe I wanted to get hit, maybe I wanted to get crushed under the man made rubber tires, to feel the last of my life slip from my lips as easily as words could. "Maybe I have been asking for this, for this pain because I think I'm deserving of it, of getting torn apart at my own hand. I'm trying to be considerate, to distance myself so I can't hurt anyone anymore because dammit, Sia! I'm sick and tired of waking up with someone else's blood on my hands, of fearing what I've done since I blanked out. I don't know who I am anymore, what I am anymore. I could have hurt you, Sia, I could still, and I would wake up and never know until I saw you again. This is why I can't live in the Throat, I can't do it because everyone will be at risk because of me. I don't want to hurt people anymore Sia, I don't want to," I felt the tears as soon as I started talking about unintentionally hurting others, of bringing my hooves and teeth into flesh without being aware of it, of blacking out and opening my eyes hours later with the fear of what I'd done this time at the forefront of my mind. I couldn't continue like this, but I couldn't stop it just like that either, this was an irreversible problem, something that had rooted itself to me the moment I'd made the wish to get away. I'd ruined myself on a deeply subconscious level, where my mind sought solace from itself.   

It would be a sad sight to look at, my tears coming down with ruthless ferocity as I bite my lip in an attempt to stop it from trembling, with my knees wobbling and weak as the weight of my actions hits my shoulders like an elephant falling to my back. I am gasping, heart racing like its got somewhere to be, something to win, wild and untamed in the way it threatens to tear form my chest (MAKE IT STOP MOMMY IT HURTS SO BADLY MAKE IT S T O P PLEASE MOMMY I JUST WANT TO DIE). I deserve to hear what Sia has to say, what her opinion of me is. Hobgoblin is the one who has given her the idea, who rooted the idea of my monstrosity of an existence into her crowned head. I swallow harshly, knowing now that there was nothing left for me, that this was it, I'd lost everything, every hope, dream or wish that I'd ever held. They were all crushed under the overwhelming truth of Sia's words. 

Why do I always mess up? Why do I always react the wrong way, say the wrong thing, break under the pressure I'd been crushing myself under. I was holding the knife, I was the one inflicting the pain, the one drawing blood from my own body, the one letting pink scars flower over my hide, making a prized garden of suffering. I felt all of my bare skin cry out for attention as I look at where my spit had landed, felt it all scream because I'd always been the one wielding the weapon, always the one causing the damage to my feeble chestnut body. Why couldn't I stop? What did I see in my cries, in my tears, that was so appealing to feel, to experience the great ecstasy of uncontrollable pain with a smile. Was I so fucked up as to think I was every bit deserving of my deepest wounds, psychological and physical, of every wound that I had ever suffered. "No." Is how you answer, firm in your beliefs, I could feel the way you began to get annoyed by me, that you were getting sick of my self pitying behaviour. "No one deserves to get hurt. But get hurt anyway, you cannot avoid it. Please stop, Sameira hurts too."  Thank you, but it's not that easy. I cannot change how I had lived for years upon a whim  because you want me too, it will take time, it will take will power and I will need help. Learning that I am okay will not be an easy thing, I will be braving a hurricane in a boat fit for calm afternoons in small rivers, I will be pushing tons of rubble from my body with but my bare hands, and Samiera, you will have to stand aside and simply provide moral support, you will have to push me when I no longer want to move, when I am bleeding and my eyes are runny, I entrust you to guide me back into line whether it be through persuasion or force. 

Sia will be a good mother, I know she will. It's apparent in the way she talks of how she will teach her son, how she carefully moves about him, tentative to his needs and patient with him. Her protective stance shows she is willing, that she will protect the boy even if he is a bastard child, even if he was created in a womb unwilling. I know she will raise him well, that she will be the best mother anyone could ever ask for, that this child is lucky to have such a kind, caring and emotional dam to keep him safe. She is a fierce mother, although new to the ways, she will learn quickly, I have no doubt, she will learn and grow beside her son. Together they will love one another, that this boy will have a better childhood than either of us did, and I wanted him to have it, to know what it's like to run without a care in the world and discover the world one piece at a time. 

Zhu, that is what Sia has named him. It was fitting, it clung to the boy like rain to fur, it was written all over his pure dark body, the name was perfect for him. It rolled well enough off of the tongue, from what I could hear between my persistent muffled sobs (I'm trying to be quiet, mommy can't hear that I'm weak). I smile, small and out of the blue, it springs out like the first budding flower of the spring, subtle at first, then all at once. "What a fitting name," I offer with my tears still present, knowing this will do nothing to mend what destruction I'd brought between us, it was like me sticking a band-aid on an exposed organ, saying, "all better now." It was far from that, the uneasy tension between us still looming over me like some sort of monster, breathing down my neck and panting as I flinched away from it, as if avoiding acknowledging it would make it go away, would make everything better. 


I look down at the ground, swallowing at the uneasy feeling that sweeps over me, avoiding looking at her for fear that I will do something irrationally stupid again. I know I will, I can feel it in my bones that I am destined to say something again, that I will break our relationship further and further until there's nothing left but tattered threads. "I am not perfect—" I whisper, trying to gather up the bits and pieces I had let scatter, pushing my urges to weep off to the side, where they would no longer be a problem for at least a few minutes. I needed to do something, to say something that could waver Sikeax's tainted opinion on me, on the things I have done and her expectations of my failure. "I'm no better than the shit under our hooves, than the murderers in the night. I am disgustingly flawed, I will never reach perfection, I will never even be able to look at it." I stared down, eyes settling upon my blood and spit, my tears having settled down but still there, falling with a more subtle nature. 

She tells why she had done it, how she had turned to someone for help when her and Goblin were suffering, when their pain was so great that they had to depend on a sex hungry savage to feed them. I eye the wounds, healing slowly but surely, but present and concerning in the manner they have been placed, who had dared to hurt her? My stomach flips, and the familiar feeling of burning rage, of an uncontrollable lust for blood, of something that wished for me to bring an end to whoever manipulated Sia the way they had, who had used her when she was hurt. I grind my teeth together, brows narrowing as I feel your supportive push, knowing what I intended to say even before I did. "A- are you okay?" I murmur, looking up after ages of avoiding it, of running from her callous gaze. I wouldn't hide my concern, my worry for her safety, damning myself for not being there when she had needed help. I could have been there for her, I could have gotten Hobgoblin food, and Sia could have avoided this entire thing. "He.. he wasn't rough was he? He didn't hurt you?" I can hear the prominent tremble of my voice, the unsteadiness in the way I walk forward by just an inch. "I should have been there, I shouldn't have been off somewhere feeling sorry for myself, I should have been there to help you." I felt guilty, guilty and stupid for not being here for Sia. All this time, all this time, she has been here for me, and yet I have offered nothing in return for her. No wonder she believes I am selfish, I have taken her love and in return given mine, but within the confines of my mind, never letting such confessions slip from my lips, like if I let them go they'll come back to bite me. "I'm so sorry, I am so sorry—" The words are stumbling out, drunk on my passion and unrequited love, letting my emotions and heart speak what I never had the courage to. "Sia I am so sorry, I— you've done so much for me, and look at me. What have I given you? What have I done that makes me worthy of your kindness, of our friendship, of you? As you said, all I've done is push you away, push and push but you still try. I want to change it, I- I want to try and do something for you," It was understandable, if she didn't want me, if she wanted me to leave, if she couldn't bear to look at me anymore. I was disgusting, I was pitiful, for how could you look at shit and think, "I want help from that." I anticipated her answer, holding down my panic until she gave one, heart pounding like an angry neighbour come to complain about the volume of your music, bashing upon the door with a desperate need to get your attention. It thrummed faster and faster, my knees as weak as Zhu's likely were, gelatinous and unsteady as I stood before Sia, now letting my eyes fall once more because I cannot bring myself to meet her eyes when she says no, to look through cobalt lenses and see the world as she does, to see the way she suffers and all that her eyes give away. I will avoid the collision of watery amber and clear blue, of the new mother and newly broken, of the successful and the childish, of friends whose friendship was in tatters because of ones foolish faults.