the early morn was partially cloudy and frigidly cold as scarab was stirred from sleep. he starts as he awakes too quickly, head lifting, lapis lazuli gaze wildly seeking the shadows for the corpse with the voice of legion that is a regular in his dreams. yet, unlike the first couple of nights scarab had dreamt of the corpse that had filled his belly before he'd left the coast no longer stirs fear within the dahomey-rivaini; because scarab realizes that out of the two: half eaten dream corpse with voice of legion and burning eye sockets and him it is he that is the bigger monster. the acceptance of what he is does not bring with it feelings of shame within scarab, like he suspects it should.
survival wasn't brave. it wasn't poetic. it was ugly. there were lines that scarab hadn't once hesitated to cross. lines that he knew he wouldn't hesitate to cross again.
he presses his nose against his petrified sandpiper for a moment, squeezing his eyes closed as his stomach rumbles. the ache of bruises and the sting of pulling wounds has faded. his shallow wounds had scabbed and then scarred over, the bruises dissipated. now there was only the ache of his never fully sated belly to deal with. he sighs heavily, peeking an eye open to the starlit sky, absently tracing an abstract shape in the sky with his gaze before he tucks his crown jewel into its hiding place — a small hole he dug concealed by a thicket of tough grass — and pushes himself to his paws in a languid stretch.
sleep would evade him now, he knows. so he doesn't see the point in laying here and pretending to sleep anymore. instead, he strives to make himself useful, ambling towards the borders of the meadow.
survival wasn't brave. it wasn't poetic. it was ugly. there were lines that scarab hadn't once hesitated to cross. lines that he knew he wouldn't hesitate to cross again.
he presses his nose against his petrified sandpiper for a moment, squeezing his eyes closed as his stomach rumbles. the ache of bruises and the sting of pulling wounds has faded. his shallow wounds had scabbed and then scarred over, the bruises dissipated. now there was only the ache of his never fully sated belly to deal with. he sighs heavily, peeking an eye open to the starlit sky, absently tracing an abstract shape in the sky with his gaze before he tucks his crown jewel into its hiding place — a small hole he dug concealed by a thicket of tough grass — and pushes himself to his paws in a languid stretch.
sleep would evade him now, he knows. so he doesn't see the point in laying here and pretending to sleep anymore. instead, he strives to make himself useful, ambling towards the borders of the meadow.
nanowrimo: 307
“it's a quality of the gods
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
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Messages In This Thread
unhinge your jaw - by Scarab - November 07, 2019, 04:41 AM
RE: unhinge your jaw - by Darkmoon - November 26, 2019, 04:44 AM