winter. dry season. the season of hunger, the deep gnawing kind never satisfied by blood and sinew, the season he loves and loathes and fears and needs. his head is so painfully clear. this is what freedom feels like, isn't it? it's so nice.
except, fuck freedom. fuck it if it feels like dragging concrete blocks with each step, like the frigid air corroding his lungs, like an ache so deep in his chest he swears his ribcage will split and fall away. fuck it if it means sinking into the snow-laden dirt, trembling, clawing desperately at the frozen earth as his head dips and twists in nameless agony. fuck it, he thinks, writhing, wailing against the snow and tasting ash and death and ruin. he is a slave, a weak man, sundered as the forest around him by his crippling need. as he goes limp against the forest floor, he imagines, hazily, the features of his brother. the grief is a welcome distraction.
except, fuck freedom. fuck it if it feels like dragging concrete blocks with each step, like the frigid air corroding his lungs, like an ache so deep in his chest he swears his ribcage will split and fall away. fuck it if it means sinking into the snow-laden dirt, trembling, clawing desperately at the frozen earth as his head dips and twists in nameless agony. fuck it, he thinks, writhing, wailing against the snow and tasting ash and death and ruin. he is a slave, a weak man, sundered as the forest around him by his crippling need. as he goes limp against the forest floor, he imagines, hazily, the features of his brother. the grief is a welcome distraction.
"common" | "latin"
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one never learns how the witch became wicked - by Ronnie - February 14, 2019, 03:13 PM
RE: one never learns how the witch became wicked - by Speedy - February 23, 2019, 12:22 AM