01-14-2020, 06:45 PM
Is it the worst thing I’ve ever felt? Brunhilde thinks while lipping at a tender and freshly scabbed cut. It sits just above the bend of her front left knee; so she finds it terribly easy to pick it open when anxious. She is nervous often these days, the new gash destined to never heal. It will fold into mottled flesh eventually, and Brunhilde will peer at it in disgust.
Such markings remind her of the imperfections, the fights, how she can’t even be good enough for the most base desires.
This one especially—for it was not given by a scorned lover; no, this one she drove into the rocky earth of a riverbed and gasped when her flesh split. The memory is like a cold rain to wake one from a once sunny nap: Brun mirrors the memory’s exhale as her eyelids violently fly open. The image of her minced skin sends her long legs into a dizzy prance, wintery leaves and twigs snapping as she tautly escapes her nest’s hold.
The winter’s moon is silent: no chirping crickets or sleepily cooing birds. Brunhilde hates the silence, hates that she has to fill her head with her own noise. Her voice, when unbidden by company, is broken and savage, lacking the supple texture of the bratty princess she grew up as.
Brunhilde’s misery has long surpassed the point of exasperated sighs, and when her mind and lungs feel like they might need a break, she simply holds her breath. No sign of relief will escape those saccharine lips, not when she has years of rotten honey to hide behind her teeth. She does that now—holds her breath—and stares blankly at the yellowed grass of the meadow.
The moon’s glow and Brun’s depression dims her magic’s light; so, when Brigade is clearly in front of her, she hardly takes notice. Her legs brush through the dry grass and her nose tickles the sharp blades’ tips—neither unpleasant sensation drawing her from her reverie.
“Uh,” Brunhilde whispers with a start, rearing her angular head just in time to keep from running into the wine-stained stallion. At first, she does not recognize him, and only thinks this must be Bub, and oh god he’s found her out wandering again, and what is he going to do this time, and and—
Brun lifts frantically remorseful eyes to find the moody gaze of what her delusions might consider an old friend. Those delusions die hard, though, and Brigade is greeted with the same crassness Hildy has always offered him.
“You again. Why do we only ever meet at night?”
Such markings remind her of the imperfections, the fights, how she can’t even be good enough for the most base desires.
This one especially—for it was not given by a scorned lover; no, this one she drove into the rocky earth of a riverbed and gasped when her flesh split. The memory is like a cold rain to wake one from a once sunny nap: Brun mirrors the memory’s exhale as her eyelids violently fly open. The image of her minced skin sends her long legs into a dizzy prance, wintery leaves and twigs snapping as she tautly escapes her nest’s hold.
The winter’s moon is silent: no chirping crickets or sleepily cooing birds. Brunhilde hates the silence, hates that she has to fill her head with her own noise. Her voice, when unbidden by company, is broken and savage, lacking the supple texture of the bratty princess she grew up as.
Brunhilde’s misery has long surpassed the point of exasperated sighs, and when her mind and lungs feel like they might need a break, she simply holds her breath. No sign of relief will escape those saccharine lips, not when she has years of rotten honey to hide behind her teeth. She does that now—holds her breath—and stares blankly at the yellowed grass of the meadow.
The moon’s glow and Brun’s depression dims her magic’s light; so, when Brigade is clearly in front of her, she hardly takes notice. Her legs brush through the dry grass and her nose tickles the sharp blades’ tips—neither unpleasant sensation drawing her from her reverie.
“Uh,” Brunhilde whispers with a start, rearing her angular head just in time to keep from running into the wine-stained stallion. At first, she does not recognize him, and only thinks this must be Bub, and oh god he’s found her out wandering again, and what is he going to do this time, and and—
Brun lifts frantically remorseful eyes to find the moody gaze of what her delusions might consider an old friend. Those delusions die hard, though, and Brigade is greeted with the same crassness Hildy has always offered him.
“You again. Why do we only ever meet at night?”
@[brigade]
