War Wounds
He’s been broken so long he can’t remember being whole. The pieces get worked on one at a time, a friendship buffing out the scars here, love fitting the edges together there, a purpose holding the rest of the mess together with baling twine, but there’s always something removed that can’t be put back.
He’s never told her about that. Didn’t have the words in common the first time, doesn’t see the point now they’ve both changed so much.
But this holiday kicks him in his useless sacs every year, reminds him of the future he sacrificed trying to buy a place in it with his flesh.
His parents had three children. By the time they died, only one. He’s left their name behind, didn't see the point in keeping hold when no one would carry it on.
It taunts him, sharing ice cream with children who have a hole in them as gaping as his own. Wonders if he couldn’t fill that for them, and them him. He’s chosen a partner with cream skin, so why not a son with green, or a daughter with wide fel eyes?
And it’s tempting enough to eat away at him, little nibbles like he’s a rare treat to be savoured, but he can’t risk it. Won’t hurt them more than life already has. Doesn’t want to make them as crazy as the deader at the Zhevra, waiting for tusks that will never grow.
Takes the kids back to the matrons, forces a smile and hopes theirs are real. Wonders what sadistic shit thought up this holiday in the first place.
He’s never told her about that. Didn’t have the words in common the first time, doesn’t see the point now they’ve both changed so much.
But this holiday kicks him in his useless sacs every year, reminds him of the future he sacrificed trying to buy a place in it with his flesh.
His parents had three children. By the time they died, only one. He’s left their name behind, didn't see the point in keeping hold when no one would carry it on.
It taunts him, sharing ice cream with children who have a hole in them as gaping as his own. Wonders if he couldn’t fill that for them, and them him. He’s chosen a partner with cream skin, so why not a son with green, or a daughter with wide fel eyes?
And it’s tempting enough to eat away at him, little nibbles like he’s a rare treat to be savoured, but he can’t risk it. Won’t hurt them more than life already has. Doesn’t want to make them as crazy as the deader at the Zhevra, waiting for tusks that will never grow.
Takes the kids back to the matrons, forces a smile and hopes theirs are real. Wonders what sadistic shit thought up this holiday in the first place.