@sungracd » unprompted ( always accepting ) : “ … do you despise her? ” their voice is gentle as it breaks through the silence lingering in the air. but rather than tense and filled with discomfort, it's one of pensive calm as they busy themself with the task at hand, fingers weaving torn fabric with needle and thread. “ the one who created you? ”
𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, awash in the red purple hues of blunt force trauma. it is a good thing they aren’t looking at him, because he’s mimicking the impression of a fish right now -- parted lips, closed, parted, closed. the temper comes, but it’s molasses thick and a moment too late to disguise what it really is ( pain / flared somewhere in the cavity of his chest where a heart should sit ).
his head jerks away, hand swiping against his cheek, clawed fingers curving palm into a light fist. the answer itself is wrapped in layers of stillness, like the quiet of the world in the center of the storm. outside, it rages. he doesn’t bite, but his teeth ache all the same.
restraint, if only for the sake of hiding how well that perception pierces him.
a long, long moment passes. they’re so calm in their corner, unflinching in their task, diligent as if there is nothing else half as important. as if they haven’t just driven a stake straight through his chest. no one has dared to ask him about her since he’d woken up, and he’d nearly killed the doctor for that infraction. it is a testament to time that history does not repeat itself here -- not that it can heal, but that it can erode. awash the hurt in dust, so it is fuzzy at the edges, and harder to identify.
“ what a stupid question. “ he is resolutely not looking at them. picking, instead, at the fading polish on his thumb, its sheen catching the light in a myriad of colors, like the wings of a beetle, like an oil sheen beneath lamplight. he feels like that, too. if they shift wrong, maybe he’ll catch fire. a sneer, pretty and petty and cruel, is on his mouth. “ is that what you want to talk about? philosophy? “
like a pinned specimen under harsh light. the feeling isn’t so different from someone poking around his guts; more instead like shrapnel shaking around in his lungs. every reaction feels like he is giving something away.
“ do you hate your creator? it doesn’t matter – they don’t even think about you. you aren’t real, aren’t worth the thought, aren’t alive to them. “ it is spilling from his mouth like an insult, but there’s something there beneath it all. greater depths within the shallows. he finally looks at them – the temper is swirling, a violet glow in the flash of his eyes. “ doesn’t that make you mad? “