| World's Edge Mare |
| Mare :: Equine :: 14 hh :: 4 |
| M.E. |
The mist that crept between her lids went unnoticed by the grey fawn; her white eyes were already blind in her red haze of madness. They were not hers anymore; they now belonged to the shadows that dared reach into her throat, tearing her mind and her brains asunder—wrenching control of herself and her body away from the miserable wretch, looking for complete destruction, domination. She could no longer feel the shallow cuts and bruises on her sides; her trembling legs didn’t register with her. The hoarse, panicked, feverish breathing that slipped passed her lips went unnoticed and forgotten. Her mind was gone—or at least, it was too turbulent to pay attention. Swirling as it was in the depth of her own pain, it was a wonder her mind didn’t already drown in the despair of her heart.
It was the voice of the shade that brought her partially back to awareness.
*"Are you scared?"*
It was not a voice the grey mare recognized—it was not a timbre that immediately registred friendship. Yet those soothing tones were almost enough to bring the mare back to herself.
What rubbish was this? Who dare approach Us? He should leave well enough alone.
Nosey shmuck.
Another shriek of agony began to claw at her throat; she wanted to answer his gentle inquiry, to tell him yes, sir, I am indeed terrified out of my mind—but her voice was not her own. The second she became aware of her lost control, the panic mounted, and she struggled against the prison of her own dappled hide.
We were having none of that. It belonged to Us now. Had the poor deluded soul returned to *her* rightful place as The Master’s plaything, *she* wouldn’t be in this situation. Too much freedom had been granted—and now We are here to take it back. Save *her* from herself. Make *her* see the darkness of *her* ways—or wrench the very life from *her* marrow in the doing. *She* didn’t deserve to live. If The Master met his end, it was certainly *her* duty to rot in his coffin, a sentinel and a testament to His glory.
Cuz he was rich.
*"I can keep you safe."*
Her tears fell then; all this time the grey mare had been running in dry fear of her own demons, but it was this little offer of protection that caused her heart to expand and break within the spiked ridges of her body. She could feel the stranger touching her; a warm, surprisingly thick neck and the light breathing of a tender muzzle tickled the side of her body, and she craved release. It was a distant sensation, mind—she was still too far lost for her to properly feel the dimensions of her own body—but she felt it nonetheless.
He was getting too close, much too close. It revolted Us, and we snorted, our ears pinning. *She* was pleased by it, the filthy slut; *she* enjoyed his embraces, his words of power and control, while it continued to nauseate Us. What a little traitor. It’s clear there was no redemption; *she* would need to be completely eliminated.
Please know, Mr., I never meant you any harm. I wish I could tell you how happy your words made me; I wish we could’ve been friends…
It was time to end *her*. I*She* brought Us nothing but inconvenience; it was surely time to break *her*.
Forgive me, Mr.
*"I can give you peace."*
“What presumption,” We snarled, stepping back and away from his sickening touch. Our eyes rolled, bleached and dead in the darkness. We snorted with *her* tiny muzzle, lashing *her* proud tail and looking this shadowy stranger straight into his ghastly visage. He couldn’t fool Us. He was bathed in the lake of sin; it billowed from him in pungent waves, the stench of his guilt almost unbearable to this innocent throat. Innocent—humph! How ridiculous. “You think you could bring her peace,” we said, mocking his supposed “gallantry”, teasing his sense of self-righteousness and stepping on his idea of chivalry. “She is more broken than you know.” Ignorant, nosy cur. A curse of burnt bacon on him.
The idea of him suddenly enraged us beyond rhyme or reason. We suddenly reared, blind and full of fire, Our hooves striking the air where we believed him to be. “LEAVE US,” we snarled, *her* voice catching violently on our rage. *She* wasn’t built to shriek in this manner, in the manner of rage. Just goes to show—she was never meant to live in the first place. Spineless.
Please forgive me, Mr.
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[P] Satan is my Motor. Hear my Motor Purr.
