how much heartache can we take?
Summer is rather forgiving, far more so than the cold of the shadows, the ice of winter that knits to the deepest of your bones. The Gates, in summer is quite a spectacle. The greens of the blades at my feet, are vivid and soft, luscious clover cannon bone deep. I idle, in the heart of the Gates, my chocolate frame looking a little better than it ever has been. The scars are grey, dark against my skin, but not open, not fleshy and sore. They still hurt, of course they do, but perhaps now it is the memories that burn into my flesh, more so than the wounds themselves.
My bones do not jut at obscure angles, my ribcage has a slight covering and is no longer a xylophone of ivory white bone. the grass in the Gates is palatable and forgiving. the sun, it's glimmering rays beaming down and warming my hide, welcomingly so. I doze a little, eyes closing, drooping my head so that my muzzle hangs just above the clover, my lip drooping. The serenity here, it lulls me into sleep, a warm embrace. And even though no one is near, I feel a comfort, a compassion. That feeling alone lures me into the throes of slumber.
Burning, everything was burning. The trees, the barren earth. It was alight, aglow with a hatred that ran deeper than anything else. The smell to come next, it flipped my stomach, it made my nostrils pique against it. Death. It clung to me, like the heavy corpse that protected me from the flame. His crimson life filling his dead eyes, slipping from his nose and his chest, decorating me in what would have looked like war paint. I shivered, pulled myself out and stood there, looking at the carnage, the mayhem that was strewn with rocks, body parts and blood. Thunder boiled above, the rain to come put out the flames, but nothing could quell the hate, the anger that peppered the land. Then He, appeared. He, and his glowing eyes, he and his shadowy body. he was Hell's creature, a diablo, a devil. He galloped to me, all intent on ripping me from the loam, stealing my heart, grabbing my soul. Out of nowhere, someone grabbed me, eyes as cold as steel, he told me to run, run. I did, I ran, as fast as my legs could go, until my nostrils leaked blood and my lungs filled with lead.
He followed me. His shadow imposing, attached to me, his dark, domineering voice echoing in my skull. 'You're mine. I will not rest until you are mine, until your bones rot in the earth's crust and your blood runs in the rivers. You are mine, mine alone. And you will not exist without me.' His voice pulls at every part of me, threatening to pull me apart, unseen claws dragging me deeper and deeper into the woods. Dark hands roamed my body, touched me and pulled at my wounds, reopened the healed flesh and stuck branches inside. I called out, cried with an intense scream, it came from the very edge of my soul. And everything, everything left me and I was there, broken, bleeding.
Broken. Bleeding.
I awoke. Eyes white, wide and throbbing from my skull. My body twitched, head lifted up, up tot he heavens, every sinew as hard as stone, rigid and unmoving. I breathed with lead in my lungs and iron in my mouth. Screamed, the shrill call that I thought was my dream, had been real. Then I see them, the inky shadows creeping from the woods, dark tendrils coiling, like gnarled fingers and beckoning me there, into the darkness, to the void eyes that wanted me dead. I shivered, every inch of me a trembling wreck. I shook my head, silver tresses falling in ribbons down my face. My eyes then twisted, to the Tree, to the shade, where Kernick was sleeping. I doubled back, reversing, finding him there, asleep. My eyes glistened, thankful that the little bundle is still there, not taken. But still, the little bundle was not as attached as a part of me, he wandered, disappeared and would return and I would feed him, only for it to happen all over again. Kernick, asleep, safe, my attention returns to the shadows, and I crane my head, tilting it to the side, watching, watching for the predators that lurk, their demonic eyes that engulfed me. Swallowed me.
'I'm Safe. Reuen is Safe. The Gates, the Gates are safe.' my tone is a whisper, barely there, barely touching my lips. Soft, lulling like the gentle summer breeze that picks at the wildflowers and tosses them into the currant. They swirl, twirl around me and fall to my feet. I lower my head and whicker softly, picking up the stems of a few flowers. The Gates, they are safe, they protect me, heavenly warmth, serene flowers. All is safe, all is safe.
Reuen. Reuen hasn't ruined here, not yet, not yet at least...
R E U E N
little broken girl of the gates