Post by phenaeris on May 19, 2010 23:57:27 GMT -5
A scrap of poetry, a half-remembered line from a song, stories and rhymes that he'd learned as a child - he muttered those beneath his breath as he walked, the words not enough to rid him of the panic that threatened to overtake him.
Heedless of the plants he trampled and the twigs that snapped beneath his feet, he walked. He was not yet so desperate as to call to it - her, he thought faintly and almost cringed at the concession. Just because he was insane didn't mean that he had to give in.
Swallowing, he halted and sat back against a tree, eyes quick to avoid the sight of the whorls that lined his arms, too smooth and curling to be true scars and too different in feel to be merely ink. They repulsed him. He repulsed himself. He wanted to tear off his skin, leave this uncomfortable shell of a body behind. Die. He wasn't supposed to be here in this ill-fitting form; he was supposed to be himself, and -
Quickly, he drew in a breath.
"Don't think about that," he whispered to himself. "Don't". He dragged his mind to another subject, wrapping his fingers around a flower stem. The badger had said that she would return when the sun set. He thought that it would still be a few hours yet; the sun was still high in the sky. Not that he wanted her to return; she was only a sign of how crazy he was becoming, that animals spoke to him and then left.
"Maybe this is only a dream," he said to the flower. His voice shook, and he despised himself for his weakness, his helplessness - this was not how the story was supposed to go. And this place felt too real to be a dream; the rage and fear that quickened his breathing(he couldn't remember ever thinking about breathing in a dream), the pricking of tears in his eyes, and all the clumsiness that came from moving in this ill-fitting form were all too painfully clear.
Closing his eyes, he waited, because there was nothing else to do.
Heedless of the plants he trampled and the twigs that snapped beneath his feet, he walked. He was not yet so desperate as to call to it - her, he thought faintly and almost cringed at the concession. Just because he was insane didn't mean that he had to give in.
Swallowing, he halted and sat back against a tree, eyes quick to avoid the sight of the whorls that lined his arms, too smooth and curling to be true scars and too different in feel to be merely ink. They repulsed him. He repulsed himself. He wanted to tear off his skin, leave this uncomfortable shell of a body behind. Die. He wasn't supposed to be here in this ill-fitting form; he was supposed to be himself, and -
Quickly, he drew in a breath.
"Don't think about that," he whispered to himself. "Don't". He dragged his mind to another subject, wrapping his fingers around a flower stem. The badger had said that she would return when the sun set. He thought that it would still be a few hours yet; the sun was still high in the sky. Not that he wanted her to return; she was only a sign of how crazy he was becoming, that animals spoke to him and then left.
"Maybe this is only a dream," he said to the flower. His voice shook, and he despised himself for his weakness, his helplessness - this was not how the story was supposed to go. And this place felt too real to be a dream; the rage and fear that quickened his breathing(he couldn't remember ever thinking about breathing in a dream), the pricking of tears in his eyes, and all the clumsiness that came from moving in this ill-fitting form were all too painfully clear.
Closing his eyes, he waited, because there was nothing else to do.