ANDRAS DEMYAN
no red feathers. all red ashes.
listen to me, child:
it all starts with you saying
"I have done something right."
no red feathers. all red ashes.
listen to me, child:
it all starts with you saying
"I have done something right."
He is singing.
Andras can feel the tension, pulled tight like cord around their throats, and he has completely forgotten who he is. All he can hear is the screech of his blood and all he can feel are his lips pulling back in a grin. Manic. Wolflike. Giddy.
"Oh, I like you," he says and his voice is thick with something he doesn't say, doesn't think, just takes a moment to bask in. He doesn't know what it is except the crunch of bone and the agony of broken skin. It feels like a swift punch in the gut and he can't stop the breathless chuckle that chases it any more than he can stop the grinning.
The thing in him is telling him to push, to push and push and pushpushpush until Mathias breaks, come what may. The thing in him is hungry, starving, even, and its song is louder than his rage has ever been.
Mathias, he says through teeth clenched as tight as Andras'. It's the gritting teeth that gets him, the echo of something unholy that he does not see the irony in, but the irony is definitely there. Andras is too busy hoping Mathias will do something that he does not see the picture as a whole: these creatures, diametrically opposed; the way Mathias is clutching the bag of seed close, white-knuckled; the dirt beneath him; his own trembling wings.
Who the fuck are you, then?
He wishes he knew. Sometimes he wonders.
This is what pushes the feeling down. And suddenly he is Andras in the dawn and the dirt. And the fox-like staff that have gathered in the doorway are staring from behind, tense and silent. He makes a mental note to apologize. He probably won't.
"Oh. Um," says Andras, searching through the fog of his head, "Andras Demyan. I'm... new. And sorry."
Andras can feel the tension, pulled tight like cord around their throats, and he has completely forgotten who he is. All he can hear is the screech of his blood and all he can feel are his lips pulling back in a grin. Manic. Wolflike. Giddy.
"Oh, I like you," he says and his voice is thick with something he doesn't say, doesn't think, just takes a moment to bask in. He doesn't know what it is except the crunch of bone and the agony of broken skin. It feels like a swift punch in the gut and he can't stop the breathless chuckle that chases it any more than he can stop the grinning.
The thing in him is telling him to push, to push and push and pushpushpush until Mathias breaks, come what may. The thing in him is hungry, starving, even, and its song is louder than his rage has ever been.
Mathias, he says through teeth clenched as tight as Andras'. It's the gritting teeth that gets him, the echo of something unholy that he does not see the irony in, but the irony is definitely there. Andras is too busy hoping Mathias will do something that he does not see the picture as a whole: these creatures, diametrically opposed; the way Mathias is clutching the bag of seed close, white-knuckled; the dirt beneath him; his own trembling wings.
Who the fuck are you, then?
He wishes he knew. Sometimes he wonders.
This is what pushes the feeling down. And suddenly he is Andras in the dawn and the dirt. And the fox-like staff that have gathered in the doorway are staring from behind, tense and silent. He makes a mental note to apologize. He probably won't.
"Oh. Um," says Andras, searching through the fog of his head, "Andras Demyan. I'm... new. And sorry."
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
