I'M JUST THE PRODUCT OF A LIVING HELL
and i don't want to live like this anymore
and i don't want to live like this anymore
At first, he doesn’t pay any mind to the stallion approaching him -- not until the person approaching gets close enough to breach his bubble of personal space, however. His eyes lift from the page, teeth already beginning to bare towards the stranger, and he cannot help the way every line of his body screams his discomfort, screams for the stranger to back off out of his space.
“Clearly,” He grumbles at the stallion’s apology, one leg shifting to rest on the pages of the book -- perhaps hiding that the book was meant for a mere foal just learning to read, perhaps simply to keep the book open, and he shifts his body so that his good eye can be focused wholly towards the stranger.
(The boy with the strange wings on his feet is unmarred except for the ivory splashes across his pelt, and the outcast cannot help but wonder what the younger stallion might see when he looks at him -- he, who wears scars across much of his neck, he who bore the sharp mark of talons over where an eye should have developed, he who will never be able to wash the blood from his hands.
He wonders if the boy can see the monster inside him, gnawing at his ribs.)
“You’re the king, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be paying more attention to where you walk?”
(Truthfully, the only reason he knows this is the king is because there aren’t many horses walking around with wings on their feet and flowers in their hair. He isn’t even entirely sure where he’d picked up that information from.)
“Clearly,” He grumbles at the stallion’s apology, one leg shifting to rest on the pages of the book -- perhaps hiding that the book was meant for a mere foal just learning to read, perhaps simply to keep the book open, and he shifts his body so that his good eye can be focused wholly towards the stranger.
(The boy with the strange wings on his feet is unmarred except for the ivory splashes across his pelt, and the outcast cannot help but wonder what the younger stallion might see when he looks at him -- he, who wears scars across much of his neck, he who bore the sharp mark of talons over where an eye should have developed, he who will never be able to wash the blood from his hands.
He wonders if the boy can see the monster inside him, gnawing at his ribs.)
“You’re the king, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be paying more attention to where you walk?”
(Truthfully, the only reason he knows this is the king is because there aren’t many horses walking around with wings on their feet and flowers in their hair. He isn’t even entirely sure where he’d picked up that information from.)
@Ipomoea
