can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars,
I could really use a wish right now;
She had stayed away from them in the beginning. She had come away from that strange night on the shores of the beach, at the gates of the afterlife, with this new feeling.
It was supposed to be a gift, she thinks, but it feels like a curse.
Their emotions were too much, too loud.
They tugged and pulled at her own until she couldn’t tell where theirs ended and hers began; until she didn’t have her own, she was simply suffocating beneath theirs. She had her own fears and sorrows, her own anxieties and feelings of hopelessness – but she didn’t remember them anymore. Anyone she got close to she felt their emotions as plainly as one might hear speech, and it was not the kind of thing a girl like her was meant to shoulder.
So she fled, like she does best.
She retreated to the safety of the dark and solitude, she shed their emotions and was left with the bare-boned skeleton of her own.
But the dark is not the same as what she has come to know. It is thick, invasive. It chokes like smoke, whispers with sounds she has never heard before.
It brings back memories of acid-tongues and sharp teeth digging into her flesh, of knife-tails and alien-sounds that still haunt the corners of her mind. She knows, better than most, that the dark can grow teeth, and when she tries to leave it, tries to find her way back to the light, there is no light to be found.
She stands on the edge of the meadow, her heartbeat an erratic rhythm in her chest. Her eyes strain at the sky, at the dim halo of light that hung where a sun should, and she tries to swallow the icy dread crawling into her veins.
It’s only when someone else’s emotions press against her own that her attention is pulled away, to where a pale wolf sits. Her first instinct is to flee, until she recognizes the emotions are coming from him, and she thinks, but isn’t entirely sure, that she would not be able to pick up on the emotions of a real wolf.
This is only slightly reassuring since she has never done well with her own kind, either. She has always been too quiet and too shy, too timid and too unsure. She was a waste of their time, a waste of breath.
Her dark brown eyes watch him from behind a pale forelock that hardly stirs in the cold breeze, and driven by her fear of this endless dark and the things her imagination has invented to lurk inside of it, she steps towards him. “Do you want to be left alone?” She asks him in a voice that is painfully quiet, one that trembles with a hint of hope that his answer will be no.
I'm praying that this stairway leads somewhere like Heaven's door,
and when you get there don't look down
@[Crevan]