trade wind
kasldjf daemons
He remembers, when he was young, the way Biashara became a mouse and hid on the inside of his wrist, under his uniform. The way she was already there when the nuns came with their ruler’s and their words and when he was shoved into the darkness she scrambled up his arm, a faint tickle of tiny padded feet against his skin. She settled against his neck, soft, an ermine in white fur.
She always wore her fur white, even in the dead of summer.
--
He told her that he would only be as good as she was when she settled. She always sing-songed back that she would be a lion or a timber wolf or an eagle, and he was comforted.
--
She lay at the end of his bed, a great white cat, snow leopard he knew, and he cried deep ugly tears. Like that would make all of it better. And when the other boys came to his door to jeer and taunt, she stood, growled, padded towards them.
He never saw them run away, but he heard their sneakers pounding down the creaky orphanage floor.
--
The first time he hit a boy so hard his knuckles split, she was a beagle, her tongue working carefully over his hands. She murmured that he shouldn’t have hit the boy, that he didn’t really mean it.
But he closed his hand on the air, felt the sharp sting of pain skitter up his arm and she looked up to him, her eyes suddenly huge as she became an owl. He told her he was angry, that it felt good, he’d do it again, and he remembers the low ache in his chest where her disappointment hit him.
--
He hears the nuns mutter amongst themselves that he is a monster, that Biashara will never settle at this rate.
Afterwards they stare at each other across the bed and every time she tries to pad closer to him, he raises a hand and tells her to stay where she is.
--
He remembers the way her voice trembled when she said she couldn’t change anymore. The flash of blue-scaled wings as she tried to fly to him, and then the intense otherworldly pain when he slapped her away and she struck the wall of his room.
He remembers, when he was young, the way Biashara became a mouse and hid on the inside of his wrist, under his uniform. The way she was already there when the nuns came with their ruler’s and their words and when he was shoved into the darkness she scrambled up his arm, a faint tickle of tiny padded feet against his skin. She settled against his neck, soft, an ermine in white fur.
She always wore her fur white, even in the dead of summer.
--
He told her that he would only be as good as she was when she settled. She always sing-songed back that she would be a lion or a timber wolf or an eagle, and he was comforted.
--
She lay at the end of his bed, a great white cat, snow leopard he knew, and he cried deep ugly tears. Like that would make all of it better. And when the other boys came to his door to jeer and taunt, she stood, growled, padded towards them.
He never saw them run away, but he heard their sneakers pounding down the creaky orphanage floor.
--
The first time he hit a boy so hard his knuckles split, she was a beagle, her tongue working carefully over his hands. She murmured that he shouldn’t have hit the boy, that he didn’t really mean it.
But he closed his hand on the air, felt the sharp sting of pain skitter up his arm and she looked up to him, her eyes suddenly huge as she became an owl. He told her he was angry, that it felt good, he’d do it again, and he remembers the low ache in his chest where her disappointment hit him.
--
He hears the nuns mutter amongst themselves that he is a monster, that Biashara will never settle at this rate.
Afterwards they stare at each other across the bed and every time she tries to pad closer to him, he raises a hand and tells her to stay where she is.
--
He remembers the way her voice trembled when she said she couldn’t change anymore. The flash of blue-scaled wings as she tried to fly to him, and then the intense otherworldly pain when he slapped her away and she struck the wall of his room.