07-06-2017, 12:29 AM
Jinn
I had a dream that we were dead,
and we pretended that we still lived
and we pretended that we still lived
He should be used to the fickle vagaries of this world by now, but he is not. He is not certain he ever will be. For a time he had thought himself whole and healed, a bit less, a bit more ordinary, but not a monster. Something his father could have been proud of (he still remembers the aversion he had had, the thinly veiled distaste and alarm. Remembers it as though his father still staring at him, those hated emotions clear in his eyes).
For a while, he had been almost beautiful.
No longer. No more is he the handsome, well-filled out stallion of glistening black and glittering gold. He is once again what he was, once more exactly what he had been born. He is still black with vibrant points of gold, but his skin now stretches taut against his bones, the patchy fur dull and lifeless. His eyes are once more a sickly, milky blue rather than pale, shimmering gold. He can almost feel the rattling of his bones, the rough slide of skin against protruding hips and shoulders, the sharp sting of splitting skin. It does not matter that he can stitch the flesh together as quickly as it breaks. There simply is no hiding what he is.
A monster.
And so it should come as no surprise that he lingers amongst the shadows of the forest. His black skin blends almost perfectly with the thick, inky darkness of the shaded groves he has called home for so long now. Were it not for the occasional flash of gold, the faint, irregular flashes of light amongst dark (he cannot seem to keep himself from reaching for it, toying with its silken caress. He had missed this part, the feel of bright purity molded to his touch, perfect light to brighten his darkness), he would be all but invisible.
With a sigh, he leans against a nearby tree, thin neck rising as he lifts his head to gaze at the world, intense longing deep in his pale, deathly gaze. For a moment, he feels almost brave enough to take on that wide expanse, but his feet do not move. He might long for the light, a tug to his soul almost impossible to ignore, but he belongs in shadow and night. A creature of two worlds without a home in either.
For a while, he had been almost beautiful.
No longer. No more is he the handsome, well-filled out stallion of glistening black and glittering gold. He is once again what he was, once more exactly what he had been born. He is still black with vibrant points of gold, but his skin now stretches taut against his bones, the patchy fur dull and lifeless. His eyes are once more a sickly, milky blue rather than pale, shimmering gold. He can almost feel the rattling of his bones, the rough slide of skin against protruding hips and shoulders, the sharp sting of splitting skin. It does not matter that he can stitch the flesh together as quickly as it breaks. There simply is no hiding what he is.
A monster.
And so it should come as no surprise that he lingers amongst the shadows of the forest. His black skin blends almost perfectly with the thick, inky darkness of the shaded groves he has called home for so long now. Were it not for the occasional flash of gold, the faint, irregular flashes of light amongst dark (he cannot seem to keep himself from reaching for it, toying with its silken caress. He had missed this part, the feel of bright purity molded to his touch, perfect light to brighten his darkness), he would be all but invisible.
With a sigh, he leans against a nearby tree, thin neck rising as he lifts his head to gaze at the world, intense longing deep in his pale, deathly gaze. For a moment, he feels almost brave enough to take on that wide expanse, but his feet do not move. He might long for the light, a tug to his soul almost impossible to ignore, but he belongs in shadow and night. A creature of two worlds without a home in either.
