rage is not beautiful.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
Andras is a creature of little rituals, the sort of religious dedication to a routine-- every thing and every action in their proper places. He is the sort that clings to these rituals with like, sharp claws and teeth like folded steel because it is the single warm and calm thing in his life.
Andras spreads raspberry jam on his toast from left to right. Andras eats the corners first. Andras closes his eyes and tries to breathe and pretends that the backs of his eyelids do not look like monsters and mangled flesh and a friend's face that is not a friend's face but the face of-- something altogether different.
Andras does not stop to think that he is not alone in this. Andras does not stop to think at all, just eats his toast and walks out the door and sinks into the comfortable crackle of his anger as it crawls in wide branches of light from his back to his knees.
Fall has come. The equinox looms closer by the day. Andras goes to the city to see for himself that the gripping fear has died down, that the woods are just woods and not the ribs of some old, rotten skeleton. Andras crackles his way toward the garden, wrapped in thick creeping vine just starting to grow dull for the oncoming winter. It comes as no surprise that he picks up a slab of gray stone, a small hammer, and a chisel. It comes as no surprise that when he carries them off to the corner and sits down to work, there are eyes on his back.
The warden sets the slab in the dirt, turning is so that it sits straight. He takes a deep breath. The comfortable crackle of his magic is quiet, like it, too, is asking him why? But it knows, just as he knows, that Andras is a creature of habit, one that follows an unspoken law, sometimes to his detriment - so, they are also not surprised when the high pitched ting of chisel and stone is comforting, almost safe.
Almost.
Everything is almost safe. Maybe all of it is entirely safe. He wonders when he will get rid of his ghosts, when he will close his eyes and see something other than snakes or kings or monsters. He wonders when his life will be more than toast and walking and reading. He wonders why he is not satisfied with safety, why the thing in him still growls and bellows in his sleep, why he's chipping and chipping and chipping and it does not help him relax.
Andras wonders what it is to relax. He wonders what it is to be calm, to be peaceful, to be anything but an animal, full of gunpowder and lightning, feral in his bones, in his blood, in his rotten little heart. He wonders--
--The slab cracks in half. Andras stares for a moment, sets his jaw, and huffs. He picks up one half and holds it out to the next body that passes.
"Here." he says, like he means it, like it matters. Maybe it does.
Andras spreads raspberry jam on his toast from left to right. Andras eats the corners first. Andras closes his eyes and tries to breathe and pretends that the backs of his eyelids do not look like monsters and mangled flesh and a friend's face that is not a friend's face but the face of-- something altogether different.
Andras does not stop to think that he is not alone in this. Andras does not stop to think at all, just eats his toast and walks out the door and sinks into the comfortable crackle of his anger as it crawls in wide branches of light from his back to his knees.
Fall has come. The equinox looms closer by the day. Andras goes to the city to see for himself that the gripping fear has died down, that the woods are just woods and not the ribs of some old, rotten skeleton. Andras crackles his way toward the garden, wrapped in thick creeping vine just starting to grow dull for the oncoming winter. It comes as no surprise that he picks up a slab of gray stone, a small hammer, and a chisel. It comes as no surprise that when he carries them off to the corner and sits down to work, there are eyes on his back.
The warden sets the slab in the dirt, turning is so that it sits straight. He takes a deep breath. The comfortable crackle of his magic is quiet, like it, too, is asking him why? But it knows, just as he knows, that Andras is a creature of habit, one that follows an unspoken law, sometimes to his detriment - so, they are also not surprised when the high pitched ting of chisel and stone is comforting, almost safe.
Almost.
Everything is almost safe. Maybe all of it is entirely safe. He wonders when he will get rid of his ghosts, when he will close his eyes and see something other than snakes or kings or monsters. He wonders when his life will be more than toast and walking and reading. He wonders why he is not satisfied with safety, why the thing in him still growls and bellows in his sleep, why he's chipping and chipping and chipping and it does not help him relax.
Andras wonders what it is to relax. He wonders what it is to be calm, to be peaceful, to be anything but an animal, full of gunpowder and lightning, feral in his bones, in his blood, in his rotten little heart. He wonders--
--The slab cracks in half. Andras stares for a moment, sets his jaw, and huffs. He picks up one half and holds it out to the next body that passes.
"Here." he says, like he means it, like it matters. Maybe it does.
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
