06-18-2015, 04:00 PM
I don’t play well with others.
We can play the “deflect” game and shimmy the blame on something as little as a personality quick, you are just antisocial. You could pretend it’s just insecurity, you don’t feel comfortable, that’s okay. I love that shit. It is the reason I can get away with so much, and yet face reprecessions littler than a flea. You can say that I just struggle socially, am socially inept, not meant for treaties or promises—but I know the truth. I am just cruel. I enjoy watching others shrivel at my uncomfortable presence; I thrive off stutters and aggressive retaliations. Oh, darling, fight me back, bite me.
Feed me the satisfaction I so desperately seek.
I am the wasp that never dies, and continues to enjoy stinging the shit out of a three year old that hasn’t learnt to run away. The dumb ones, the uneducated, the young—they all serve a very big roll in my life. You see, the naïve ones are the easy ones to control. You give them a promise, teach them a thing or two, make them feel great—there you have it folks, the trick of manipulation. You feed false hope, and they return with real gratification. Almost sad, really, that insecurity has made it this easy to screw a child over.
So maybe that is why I am drawn to the meadow. The long emerald blades that tickle the very bottom of my belly is less than amusing, and the lack of shade is obviously unenviable, and therefore there isn’t much else that would draw me here other than the satisfaction of innocent souls.
I am Ursula in a slimmer body.
I see a mare, and at first I flag her off as unamusing and therefore another fly in a very heated campground. Too many mares are like her, confident, distant, a true stereotype of all that a young female should be. She will be as useless as a bone is to a herbivore. Maybe next time, kitten.
But what happens next is what keeps me grounded beneath one of the only trees in the meadow. I see him, so poised and elegant. Hell, if he wasn’t blood I might just screw him now, children after all will be my best minions—but he is a half brother, and unfortunately shared the most hated thing in my life, which made his looks plummet about six decimal points; so I stand, still, watching that pretty little female get approached by such a handsome young prince.
Do I help them?... Yes indeed.
I approach like a proper mare should: tall, elegant, graceful. My splashed tobiano body soaks in the sun (which it so hardly ever sees), and my mane sits in a tangle of wind knots on my neck. I ignore the unfathomable heat, I even ignore whatever looks are darting as I approach. One thing I have learnt, one thing alone—those who dare see you negatively before learning your name are those who are so insecure that the glance of a dominant source is enough to flag paranoia.
If you haven’t heard someone talk about you, you didn’t make it.
Now this isn’t to say I am assuming anything, for what I truly hope is my half brother (the power-house he pretends to be) has no care in the world of my intentions and therefore my approach. And I do pray to God that this mare has enough guts in her to not care either, that would be nice, to speak with horses closer to my own intellect.
I hear a good morning, and I smirk at the gesture. My, my, what a polite little bird he has turned out to be. How refreshing that someone in the line of family turned out normal. What a shame it is I didn’t live up to our father’s expectations. Perhaps Straia shouldn’t have screwed HIM first, maybe that would have made me nicer.
But, then again, maybe not.
“I am sure she doesn’t mind a prince accompanying her, and I hope she doesn’t mind my own company either,” I smirk and glance up at the petite little thing (of course I use little because in my head, everything is “littler” than myself). I run my eyes up and down her frame, sizing her up as all females do and taking in her appearance. It is so hard to keep my imagination from running, so hard to keep it still and focused. To not imagine blood dripping from her throat, eyes pierced with blood liquid, mouth dry and oozing with saliva from lack of air. To see her gasp and spew red droplets, to see her body quiver.
There I go again.
What a gift it is to have a mind so imaginative and a face stone set—the poor dear won’t have a clue, and neither will he.
OOC: Sorry, still rusty on writing Smother.