Between now and the monster’s belly, Thorn has shed the skin of a kind boy and grown the scales of a monster. In his worst moments, there is the stark sound of gasping accompanied by the blistering white of rolled eyes. In his best . . . there is nothing. Nothing because Thorn is mostly a zombie, the faint drip of his wounded chest the only sound that follows him, eyes so glazed they look like they might just roll out.
Nothing—because what remains of him is the constant presence of suffering thoughts but no actual coherency—because ever since that monster threw him up he hasn’t been able to loosen such heavy shoulders—because when he breathes he is often heaving through a pain-locked chest—
“God, I’m tired,” Thorn exclaims, though it comes out more like a question and he isn’t sure he actually spoke. The sun above is hot, dries sweat against his neck and blood against his legs. He pants a little then squints through the bright dapples of the canopy to see if there might be some relief ahead. Nothing, mostly—except for the occasional cloud passing over the sun. He’d sigh if he was capable of such an expression; instead his head limply falls and his eyelids droop in exhaustion, not disappointment.
Forcing numbness is a better alternative to a constant barrage of stranger’s suffering.
The wound in his chest pulses. Fresh blood drips down his chest, drip, onto the forest floor.
Thorn stops. He’s too tired now.
Nothing—because what remains of him is the constant presence of suffering thoughts but no actual coherency—because ever since that monster threw him up he hasn’t been able to loosen such heavy shoulders—because when he breathes he is often heaving through a pain-locked chest—
“God, I’m tired,” Thorn exclaims, though it comes out more like a question and he isn’t sure he actually spoke. The sun above is hot, dries sweat against his neck and blood against his legs. He pants a little then squints through the bright dapples of the canopy to see if there might be some relief ahead. Nothing, mostly—except for the occasional cloud passing over the sun. He’d sigh if he was capable of such an expression; instead his head limply falls and his eyelids droop in exhaustion, not disappointment.
Forcing numbness is a better alternative to a constant barrage of stranger’s suffering.
The wound in his chest pulses. Fresh blood drips down his chest, drip, onto the forest floor.
Thorn stops. He’s too tired now.
thorn
under your skin, over the moon
don't let me in, I don't know what I'd do
roses are fallin', roses from fallin' for you, ooh