Blurring the target [Nevah]

"Fuck." The sharp curse is a whip in the air, spitting out and lashing out right in front of me. I'm glaring at the knife that's gone far too wide of the target, hitting the dummy's left hand when I had aimed for his heart. At least that's where I'd been told to aim, I couldn't even tell left from right in that red blur. For all I know, I could have thrown directly at his hand, not aimed for his chest. I just can't tell any more. My worth has been measured by how well I can hit the target for a good twelve years. I don't dare to think what this means.

”You could never throw a knife when you had two eyes, what makes you think you can now?” However, Nevah does and she doesn't hesitate to shove flames down my throat and into my stomach. My waist spins around, confirming that she's here and watched me miss. She pulls the knife from my finger tips, contempt dripping from her tongue like venom from a viper's fangs. ”You can’t have them if you’re not going to use them properly.” I'm scowling now, staring at her feet because I don't think that I can look her in the eye.

She can't feel any sympathy because she doesn't understand. She's can't relate because she wasn't touched by the damn tsunami, was probably out with one of her 'friends' away from the beach. The mockery is a rusty knife and it sliced just those few inches too deep. "I'd like to see you try it with one eye," I say slowly, as if contemplating when I'll next say, "it's hard, you know." I finish, before lifting my lop sided gaze from the ground and to the dummies. "Besides, how do you expect me to get my aim back if I don't practice?" A stupid question, I doubt she cares anyway.

She does her best to tear down my worth. To be completely honest, I find it hard to believe a worth measured by how well I hit the blurred target is worth fighting to gain.

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WC: 352

The excuse falls meagrely from my lips. A glass cup thrown against a brick wall; I should have known better than to think a brick wall would crumble when all I could muster up was an excuse fashioned from glass. I don't sense the least bit of movement from her, not even a glint of understanding in her eyes - I should never have been stupid enough to expect better. Glass will only shatter when meekly tossed at a brick wall; through all of the degrading phrases of idiot and useless splattered and smeared across the canvas, I've always known this.

Just like Father, she'll never accept an excuse and it seems losing an eye will only ever be tacked up as just another excuse for weakness.

”Well I am not an idiot who loses an eye so I can’t really do that…” Her words play in slow motion, each syllable as cold of the next, as if the cold muzzle of the gun was pressed against my chest. I don't shy away or cringe.

However, composure threatens to break when she covers her eye (as if in mockery) and casually flicks the knife right into the skull of the dummy; had it been a real tribute they would be dead.

(Bang)

The remainder of her words blurs, I only catch something about not being able to practice and how it's not hard. A smirk of mockery paints her lips, another degrading piece of art to smear across the canvas.

"It's not the same," I tell her, unable to tear my eyes away from the dead dummy, "you didn't nearly die, I fucking could've died."

I finally tear my eye away and back to her.

"Don't you care?" I ask, my the cracks in my voice poorly hidden.

I should have known not to throw glass as a brick wall, it always shatters in the end.

Every syllable that comes out of her mouth cuts and it digs deep. ”You’re alive, so does it really matter?” I bite the bottom of my lip, biting back the frustration - her words physically hurt. Hurts more than any glass shard in my eye or any blunted blade kissing my skin raw, perhaps it's because she's family or perhaps it's because her words are just a confirmation that my worth is basically nought at this point.

She says it doesn't really matter because I'm alive but if I was dead I know it would still mean the same thing.

”You should think yourself lucky, at least it wasn’t both eyes.” Another glass shard digs deeper into my skin but this time I don't flinch or recoil. Years of enduring this, I should be numb to the agony by now. This time, I'm scowling at her and holding my head up high despite the overwhelming urge to curl and shrivel from the pain. Too many entrance wounds and not enough exit wounds - too many gaping wounds from her words that just won't remain resolved.

She rubs venom in all the entry wounds, I spit venom back.

"Losing both eyes... at least then I wouldn't have to see your rotten face again." I spit venom from my lungs and don't break face when I say the words. I allow them to hang in the air, as if stewing between us before I dare speak again. "I'll get my aim back, you just watch." It's a promise, but it's obvious that the glass is half empty by the way my voice trails away.