red in tooth and claw // bitches day 5 leisure
Nov 20, 2022 11:10:18 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 20, 2022 11:10:18 GMT -5
The blood is thick on his claws when he pulls them back to his side. It’s ruby-red, and scented like the lunches his Ma used to make him for school—peanut butter and jelly, seared beef, even a hint of toasted bread there. Froth pours through his fangs.
He is so, so hungry.
But Andal looks up in a wild attempt to divert his focus, hones his senses on anything else, anything but the rips in the skin of the girl in front of him, and finds himself face to face with another creature: slouched, its enormous mass sliced from shadow. It’s standing upright. No, it’s slouched, but tall enough that it looks like it’s standing. Its hands are marred, claws tinged scarlet, and its fingers have way too many joints; they bend, unbend, and bend.
He looks at its eyes. Beyond its snout, two bright discs of yellow bore back into his own.
Recognition flickers then, like a flash of lightning that illuminates the darkness within him for a split second.
That’s me.
Ragged, white-mouthed, and far past and beyond the edges of who he once was, Andal stood staring at his own cruel reflection in a mirror.
The cold terror pulls him out of his bloodlust. His ears fold in despair; his height shrinks back to original.
Ma said everyone has a chance at penance, but for once, he’d like to disagree. No holy water would cleanse him of what he’s become; no prayer could free him of the urges within him. Oil and water can’t mix, good and evil never mingles, but maybe he’s always been both. He has always been selfish in his kindness, adamant in his goodness, clutching to his own honor and integrity like a drowning man to driftwood, but now the dark waters inch towards his throat, submerge them in their icy currents, and-
Takes him under.
The blood and the guilt does not go away. There is no taking them back, no transformation that would steal them away. A new moon always seem to be coming these days, a new hunger always at a corner. Hungry, terrible, and more horrifying than he’s ever dreamt to be, he rears back, head up, opening his chest to the sky, arms wide, and-
Howls with his whole chest, his whole being, the sound drowning out everything else in the library, escaping from within it. The howl splits, harmonizing with itself. It’s like there’s more than one voice.
Let the others hear.
Let them feel the chill down their spine.
He consigns to his fate. A part of him, the one that’s always been morbidly curious about the world, steps forward.