and let me kick you off a bungee

Momma had been lost, withdrawn into her own world— her body remained at my side, her mind did not, it wandered to far away places I could only dream of. I wanted to free my mind that way, to let myself drift into a universe a million light years away from the burning sands of the Throat, where no one but myself could find me (I want to hide away forever there). I'd like to let the weight of my life lift from my shoulders, to exhale serenely with Death's gentle caress there to carry me off.

When will I be swept away?

Why have I been allowed to wander, unwillingly chained to this earth for nine haunting months— months spent trapped inside a fiery hell, with wounds that smell and burn, a walking plague with a sickening stench that follows (It makes sense no one took initiative and approached me). I was something of a ghastly spectacle, the lone black ghost with the shattered wings and broken face, silently venturing through the Throat when the heat of the sun no longer threatened me (otherwise I would sweat and smell; it made me sick). I was only freed from my strict night roaming when the cold weather swept in, a moment to breathe freely while the world was coated in a chilling frost that cracked beneath my hooves.

But now the weather was warming up again, taking away what little freedom I had. It soured my mood to be pushed back into the dark, into the cool nights wasted wandering alone— who will keep me company now?

The cry catches my attention, the furious shout from a tiny body. A boy's lone figure stands before heated trees (superficial, no normal tree is so distinctly coloured like that)— it's the Arena, a competitive space to perform the ritualistic dance we have come to consider somewhat of a test of skill, a game of wits and strengths. It's where challenges are held, where the strong parade about in brutish shows to display their dominance. I have only caught wind of a few such events, but never finding enough  interest in the way the distorted shapes clash and overheat.

And here stands a child, swearing at the world and rearing up like he's one of those courageous warriors, prepared to battle to keep a title he has not yet earned. I take confident strides towards him at the center of the ring, ears falling back and muzzle outstretched to get a clearer view of the young boy. He's thinner than I, smaller, but his wings grow fine, their subtle change in temperature giving away the pristine condition they're in.

It's envy that hits me then, a strike across the face (his wings are functioning— he's a perfect child— he must be loved) as I approach. It's inexplicable rage that consumes me, a white hot brewing mix of self hatred and jealousy. What have I done to be treated so poorly? To not have the same chance to be so innocent that I shy away upon screaming a single foul word? I am upon him then, head tilted down at the winged child with a blank expression and fallen ears (I hope my mangled face scares him)."What do you think you're doing?" My words are sharp, harsh as I let my anger seep subtly into each syllable. "I doubt the Sun God gives a shit— or anyone for that matter." My words grow cold as I think about how precious he must be to so quickly apologize for swearing. I, on the other hand, have grown to live without a filter— no one ever reprimands me for my use of "bad language," so I don't think they care (or are listening to me, which is no surprise). "You're so young... shouldn't your mom be glued to you or some shit?"

-- @Saoirse