05-24-2020, 02:31 AM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
There was a time where the way she so exuberantly repeats his name would have made him laugh. She reminds him so much of his sisters, or even Astana. He does not understand why, especially now, that bright things seem to be drawn to him, and the situation has him torn. Selfishly, he enjoys this sliver of light, since his world has become so completely dark. But he is afraid, too, that his darkness might swallow her whole. He is afraid that this newly birthed monster will want to twist her happiness into sorrow, the same as was done to him. He is afraid that if he keeps her long enough she will become marred and broken, because he is so sure that he is destined to destroy everything, now.
“Dear,” he repeats in that shadow-murmur way of his, and he decides to not leave, not yet. “It suits you,” because she looks so much like the deer he used to see in the forest of Taiga, though not nearly as timid and flighty. He almost wishes she were; thinks that someday someone will take advantage of her sweet heart and her trusting nature, and he only hopes that it’s not him. Can only hope that he does morph entirely into something he no longer recognizes.
“I don’t know,” he says, and then continues grimly. “I think I am better off being nothing at all, for now.” Because there is something far worse than sadness threatening to consume him. He feels it in the pit of his gut, something just as dark yet far more tangible than the shadows he has become. Being empty seemed better than being full of something he could not control.
He sees her reach for him, and somewhere beneath the layers of shadow his heart clenches in anticipation. Afraid that she will pull back when she finds he is hardly solid, that he is some alien thing that likely should not exist. But she stops short, and he finds that that doesn’t make him feel any better. “I don’t feel like much of anything physically, either,” he tells her, swinging his head in a vague gesture at all the swirling tendrils of dark that he is made of.
“Dear,” he repeats in that shadow-murmur way of his, and he decides to not leave, not yet. “It suits you,” because she looks so much like the deer he used to see in the forest of Taiga, though not nearly as timid and flighty. He almost wishes she were; thinks that someday someone will take advantage of her sweet heart and her trusting nature, and he only hopes that it’s not him. Can only hope that he does morph entirely into something he no longer recognizes.
“I don’t know,” he says, and then continues grimly. “I think I am better off being nothing at all, for now.” Because there is something far worse than sadness threatening to consume him. He feels it in the pit of his gut, something just as dark yet far more tangible than the shadows he has become. Being empty seemed better than being full of something he could not control.
He sees her reach for him, and somewhere beneath the layers of shadow his heart clenches in anticipation. Afraid that she will pull back when she finds he is hardly solid, that he is some alien thing that likely should not exist. But she stops short, and he finds that that doesn’t make him feel any better. “I don’t feel like much of anything physically, either,” he tells her, swinging his head in a vague gesture at all the swirling tendrils of dark that he is made of.
torryn
