[private] The Wounds of My Past || {Wound}

[wound]

H e appears from the darkness like a phantom to taunt her. For a moment, she loses her breath. But it is not because she is frightened by his face or the way he towers above her like a shadow of a tree. He is a replication of her, albeit a darker and taller and masculine one. He is a ghost back to haunt her and she finds her lungs screaming for air but nothing is coming. When she does inhale, it is slow. The musk of decomposing leaves and wet undergrowth centers her. “There’s no need to apologize.” Her voice is gentle, though she doesn’t place pity there. Wound knows all too well the mask of pity or fear or sorrow that many put on when they see someone wrought with unfortunate circumstances. She has lived with it all her life, even in her moments of triumph. Despite the newness of each other’s acquaintance, Wound steps closer. She stretches her face up toward the darkness of his own, jaw tipping upward so she might be able to touch the raw twist of his mouth with her own lips. If he lets her, it is a gentle and simple touch. It’s written with the composition of a hundred words which she has never and would never be able to express. These words are found in her coffee eyes too, which stare up into his own dark ones. “We are alike.” It is whispered in their close proximity, barely a hush against the rhythmic songs of the forest around them. She is awed, caught up in a swirl of emotions and memories and thoughts and complexities that her heart threatens to break past the claws of her ribcage and spill out into the woods.

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Hephaestus]