Rey
Trapped in fear for too long, the mind will distract itself with just about anything in order to stop the torment. It’s confused, you see. All it can sense is the emotion, coming in great waves and then settling overhead, but there’s no pain afterwards, no bodily release … not yet. Without the expected ending our little self-important minds are stuck in that endless loop with no escape and it just tears us apart, inside out. If your brain can’t seem to latch onto that distraction (proof of something harmless, something not so fearful) then you’ll go plain crazy in the aftermath.
Bruise snaps at me and I focus, narrowing my sight right down onto the silver strands of his mane. Each separate thread springs to life when he suddenly breezes closer, illuminated by the weak filter of pale, winter light trickling through the canopy. I fear losing myself to those undulating waves of beat pewter, and find that I’m terrified by the idea of drowning in a sea of molten platinum and sterling. It doesn’t seem to matter what I focus on; the fear’s been planted like a dark, wet seed inside of me and with the horned beast’s encouragement, it’s beginning to burst up from the darkest recesses of my mentality. I wonder how many loops of his fear I can handle before I break.
I turn aside from the petulant aggression, my dark head jerking away at the sharp prick of his blunt teeth. This “concoction” of terror and pain he’s mixing is a potent one, for sure, needling me in one direction and then shoving me in the other, hardly giving me rest. Like being placed on the precipice of something and then being rudely yanked back. Intoxicating. Exhilarating. “I’m sure you would.” Comes the denial, and without a second to lose I snake my thin, bowed neck into a crooked angle and I strike, viperous, at his bare chest.
What have I done? I wonder in alarm, feeling the heat of our bodies and smelling the tang of my own sweet, briny sudor.
Wanna step to me better think twice, 'cause I look pretty but I ain't that nice
@[bruise]