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12-01-2016, 10:52 AM
Art by Neverr ♥
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
He didn't belong.
He was different. An outsider. Something strange and other, his heart beating out a different rhythm as he watched the rest of the world through glass—fogging it up with his breath, until he barely saw through it anymore. He didn't know what it was, just something he couldn't quite pin down, a truth he knew as truth because he felt it in his heart, but didn't know why.
And there was always that voice in the back of his mind, whispering is it something you do? How much of it was his fault, and how much of it just ..was?
The snow fell into the silence.
Something about the way she stood told him she didn't know that he was there, and he felt like an intruder. Trespassing on a private moment. Hesitantly, his ears angled back, but his opportunity to fade away before she noticed him was over before he had properly made up his mind. Hemlock landed on a branch near him, letting out a greeting he wasn't sure was meant for him or Irma; the latter didn't even react. She just remained firmly anchored to his withers, eyes dull slits.
His defense against the avalanche of guilt and shame was flimsy at best. He couldn't linger on her too long, or it would all fall apart, and for what good..? He would still be alone when it was over.
“Mauja,” she said, as if he wasn't a stranger.
What am I to you—
And just like that, it was painful, throat closing up and eyes burning. What was he to Alysanne? He knew the daughter better than the mother, though he hadn't seen her in a while (—ouch, another stab at the mind already unraveling), and—he just looked at her in silence, white breath pooling by his nose before dissipating. There was just that time by the Edge, her fragile confessions and his, almost cruelly so, sharp scrutiny.
And still she greeted him with warmth, like a friend, like—like—he didn't even know what, because he had always associated himself with those hard of heart and tongue. Bitterness and darkness had been his friends for so long, speaking through the mouths of those who had gathered around him.
“How are you?” He pressed his jaws together, as if it could hide him from the sincerity of her voice. Part of him wanted to answer I'm fine, brush it off like he wasn't still as dead as he could be, and part of him wanted to admit just how it was, because—well, there was that thing in his mind yelling that, this time, it was about him, and he had a right to admit how he was feeling.
But what would it solve? What would it do, except grind the shame further into him, like salt in already inflamed flesh? If he admitted it, here and now, it would be real. Remembered. And for all his running, for all his distance, Mauja had never known how to choose to be weak.
He was always trapped in the struggle between wanting to be one of the uniform mass, and wanting to shine the brightest. To be unacknowledged (until, maybe, after his death, but now that he wasn't dying, he was fucked), yet comforted for all the shit he had put himself through. And wasn't that the heart of it? That it was all his fault.
"Awful," he finally said, unapologetic, tone belying the word he spoke—a simple observation, as if it was nothing he wanted to neither expand on, nor answer questions about. Slowly, he blinked, wishing the world would just disappear before he opened his eyes again, but nope, it was still there, Alysanne hesitantly trapped in the clearing and him standing there on the edges, ready to flee at a moment's notice.
He felt compelled to speak again. To turn the attention from himself and onto safer ground—her. "And you?"
[ @Alysanne ]
He was different. An outsider. Something strange and other, his heart beating out a different rhythm as he watched the rest of the world through glass—fogging it up with his breath, until he barely saw through it anymore. He didn't know what it was, just something he couldn't quite pin down, a truth he knew as truth because he felt it in his heart, but didn't know why.
And there was always that voice in the back of his mind, whispering is it something you do? How much of it was his fault, and how much of it just ..was?
The snow fell into the silence.
Something about the way she stood told him she didn't know that he was there, and he felt like an intruder. Trespassing on a private moment. Hesitantly, his ears angled back, but his opportunity to fade away before she noticed him was over before he had properly made up his mind. Hemlock landed on a branch near him, letting out a greeting he wasn't sure was meant for him or Irma; the latter didn't even react. She just remained firmly anchored to his withers, eyes dull slits.
His defense against the avalanche of guilt and shame was flimsy at best. He couldn't linger on her too long, or it would all fall apart, and for what good..? He would still be alone when it was over.
“Mauja,” she said, as if he wasn't a stranger.
What am I to you—
And just like that, it was painful, throat closing up and eyes burning. What was he to Alysanne? He knew the daughter better than the mother, though he hadn't seen her in a while (—ouch, another stab at the mind already unraveling), and—he just looked at her in silence, white breath pooling by his nose before dissipating. There was just that time by the Edge, her fragile confessions and his, almost cruelly so, sharp scrutiny.
And still she greeted him with warmth, like a friend, like—like—he didn't even know what, because he had always associated himself with those hard of heart and tongue. Bitterness and darkness had been his friends for so long, speaking through the mouths of those who had gathered around him.
“How are you?” He pressed his jaws together, as if it could hide him from the sincerity of her voice. Part of him wanted to answer I'm fine, brush it off like he wasn't still as dead as he could be, and part of him wanted to admit just how it was, because—well, there was that thing in his mind yelling that, this time, it was about him, and he had a right to admit how he was feeling.
But what would it solve? What would it do, except grind the shame further into him, like salt in already inflamed flesh? If he admitted it, here and now, it would be real. Remembered. And for all his running, for all his distance, Mauja had never known how to choose to be weak.
He was always trapped in the struggle between wanting to be one of the uniform mass, and wanting to shine the brightest. To be unacknowledged (until, maybe, after his death, but now that he wasn't dying, he was fucked), yet comforted for all the shit he had put himself through. And wasn't that the heart of it? That it was all his fault.
"Awful," he finally said, unapologetic, tone belying the word he spoke—a simple observation, as if it was nothing he wanted to neither expand on, nor answer questions about. Slowly, he blinked, wishing the world would just disappear before he opened his eyes again, but nope, it was still there, Alysanne hesitantly trapped in the clearing and him standing there on the edges, ready to flee at a moment's notice.
He felt compelled to speak again. To turn the attention from himself and onto safer ground—her. "And you?"
[ @Alysanne ]
