Avox ] Boy. fin
Jul 2, 2014 22:43:32 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Jul 2, 2014 22:43:32 GMT -5
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Thinking many things makes you shudder and hurt so you learn not to think, to wipe your own mind clear of traitorous feeling, to not to question orders. As little as you don't know you remember that to question orders causes a lot of pain that oft you feel ghosting through the lighter strips of your pale, sun-missed skin. In recent days you have not disobeyed your master deliberately, and any punishment you receive is born from a genuine lack of knowledge - not that it makes it any less painful. You take it without complaint though, because you are but a footstool to them. You are a shield and you accept your lot in life with a proud tilt to your head, sleeping lightly at night so you may listen for the danger that may come.
Every day you are asked to bathe because your masters are picky about cleanliness; in the bathroom for the Avoxes there is a cracked mirror - seven years of bad luck, words you once caught a little girl Avox's lips form, and every time you see the fixed mirror now a tiny, tiny part of you wonders what she might sound like - and though you never linger before it you glance at your reflection. Usually, you are startled by your own face: round pale blue eyes almost lifeless under low eyebrows, the almost permanent downturn of your thin and reddened lips, the lack of color in your hollow cheeks. When you're forced to scrape the chestnut brown stubble off your squared jaw you can barely look yourself in the eye, instead focusing on the steadiness of your own hand as you drag the blade over your skin, or the widows' peak at the crown of your face, your forehead lined in concentration to the point where at times the tip of your aquiline nose bumps into the polished shine.
When your presence isn't needed by your master's side you train because to build yourself is all you know for certain; you push your body to its limits and beyond, and it doesn't matter that you collapse when you cannot hold yourself straight anymore because you know you've done the most you can possibly do. You don't care that your arms shake when you drag yourself out of the burning water, your skin pink and on the point of blistering as you pull simple, maneuverable clothes over your bulky frame. Your master is always pleased when you put yourself at his side and you remain careful not to display weakness in front of him or anyone else.
At night you sleep in your masters' room, trained to tune out whatever sounds they may make (murmurs and laughter and sounds you have always thought of as pained, but the first night you heard it you had lurched out of sleep with a snarl painted onto your lips, tearing sheets apart to find entangled, sweat-drenched limbs that belonged only to your joined masters; they hadn't berated you but for months after the lady-mistress had given you looks that caused you endless anxiety and misery). You are grateful that they never scream because you force yourself not to listen to the not-pain in a way that might as well have desensitized you to the sound of fear.
Pathetically you are also grateful to the fact that they have never once abused you without reason - not in the way you remember seeing another one like you be abused (kicks and slaps across the face, the child cowering with his hands clenched tight behind his back); you are treated well in comparison, given warm clothes in the winter and enough food to sustain your needed strength. Nevertheless, you are useless. Your masters are not threatened in any way in the time you are with them, and so your presence behind theirs seems purely for show.
On the nights they lead you for their favorite kind of revelry you follow like a guard dog on a leash. You are made to stand in their shadow with head bowed and your hands folded behind your back, but you are also trained to keep an eye out for danger. Most times you are bored to death instead, for you are neither allowed to celebrate the cause, nor are you given a reason to defend your masters' lives to the death.
That you are unnecessary is the reason you tell yourself when you are returned out of the blue to your vicious trainer for months of struggle and pain you thought yourself free of a lifetime ago. You cannot think of anything that you have done wrong - but then again, you cannot think at all.
[attr="class","abox"]"Boy"
| male | nineteen | avox | odair |
help me i'm holding on for dear life
Y
ou may have once had a name but you don't have one anymore - at least not one that isn't thrown about over and into your head repeatedly so you respond to it instinctively, immediately. Your masters call you whatever they choose, and some of the names they christen you with are followed by laughter like it might be funny. You don't laugh because you don't understand, and the alert lack of expression on your face only makes them laugh all the more. Most times though, they call you Boy; they call you that for reasons you don't quite remember but thinking about it (Boy) sends a wave of shame through your body. Boy-. Thinking many things makes you shudder and hurt so you learn not to think, to wipe your own mind clear of traitorous feeling, to not to question orders. As little as you don't know you remember that to question orders causes a lot of pain that oft you feel ghosting through the lighter strips of your pale, sun-missed skin. In recent days you have not disobeyed your master deliberately, and any punishment you receive is born from a genuine lack of knowledge - not that it makes it any less painful. You take it without complaint though, because you are but a footstool to them. You are a shield and you accept your lot in life with a proud tilt to your head, sleeping lightly at night so you may listen for the danger that may come.
Every day you are asked to bathe because your masters are picky about cleanliness; in the bathroom for the Avoxes there is a cracked mirror - seven years of bad luck, words you once caught a little girl Avox's lips form, and every time you see the fixed mirror now a tiny, tiny part of you wonders what she might sound like - and though you never linger before it you glance at your reflection. Usually, you are startled by your own face: round pale blue eyes almost lifeless under low eyebrows, the almost permanent downturn of your thin and reddened lips, the lack of color in your hollow cheeks. When you're forced to scrape the chestnut brown stubble off your squared jaw you can barely look yourself in the eye, instead focusing on the steadiness of your own hand as you drag the blade over your skin, or the widows' peak at the crown of your face, your forehead lined in concentration to the point where at times the tip of your aquiline nose bumps into the polished shine.
When your presence isn't needed by your master's side you train because to build yourself is all you know for certain; you push your body to its limits and beyond, and it doesn't matter that you collapse when you cannot hold yourself straight anymore because you know you've done the most you can possibly do. You don't care that your arms shake when you drag yourself out of the burning water, your skin pink and on the point of blistering as you pull simple, maneuverable clothes over your bulky frame. Your master is always pleased when you put yourself at his side and you remain careful not to display weakness in front of him or anyone else.
At night you sleep in your masters' room, trained to tune out whatever sounds they may make (murmurs and laughter and sounds you have always thought of as pained, but the first night you heard it you had lurched out of sleep with a snarl painted onto your lips, tearing sheets apart to find entangled, sweat-drenched limbs that belonged only to your joined masters; they hadn't berated you but for months after the lady-mistress had given you looks that caused you endless anxiety and misery). You are grateful that they never scream because you force yourself not to listen to the not-pain in a way that might as well have desensitized you to the sound of fear.
Pathetically you are also grateful to the fact that they have never once abused you without reason - not in the way you remember seeing another one like you be abused (kicks and slaps across the face, the child cowering with his hands clenched tight behind his back); you are treated well in comparison, given warm clothes in the winter and enough food to sustain your needed strength. Nevertheless, you are useless. Your masters are not threatened in any way in the time you are with them, and so your presence behind theirs seems purely for show.
On the nights they lead you for their favorite kind of revelry you follow like a guard dog on a leash. You are made to stand in their shadow with head bowed and your hands folded behind your back, but you are also trained to keep an eye out for danger. Most times you are bored to death instead, for you are neither allowed to celebrate the cause, nor are you given a reason to defend your masters' lives to the death.
That you are unnecessary is the reason you tell yourself when you are returned out of the blue to your vicious trainer for months of struggle and pain you thought yourself free of a lifetime ago. You cannot think of anything that you have done wrong - but then again, you cannot think at all.
your blade might be too sharp
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