Storms of the Sky

it's almost poetic - LVIII

TW: mental health, dissoc..tion, mention of bl..d, kn.ves, d..th, sc.rs, implication of assa.lt, ab.se,  SH

--Briar--

My mind has been feeling weird. I'm slow. I can't think unless I have too. I forget simple things like eating and waking up.

My days drain by. Like sand in an hourglass.

Like blood from a wound.

Bastet comes and goes.

They are here now, in the distance. Leaving for a lesson in myth. Back to their perfect life of friends and schooling.

"I'll be back," they say. I just wait until then. I only get my day count from them. They

give it structure. Even if it is erratic and chaotic.

I don't know why I'm like this.

But I have a feeling Odessa would know. Hadron would know why. If he didn't, he'd make a reason.

He would do like he usually does. He would make marks on my face. He'd take his knives. His scalpels. Dried blood of the people I brought death's eyes upon would mix with mine.

It's almost poetic.

How sad it is, to be like this. To have an enemy who you can't escape. Blood drawn between lines so blurred that you can't make out friend from foe. Mixing mixing mixing.

My hands trace my scars. Not from him, particularly. But caused by him, nonetheless. Bruises not caused by his hands. Blood not drawn by him.

I have those too. But not as many as ones drawn by my own hands.

New bruises. New purple marks on my legs. I don't fall from the trees I sleep in. But I want to. I want to feel that pain Odessa wants me to feel.

Those purple marks, caused by my own hands.

Bastet hasn't noticed them yet. I don't think they will. I have long pants, long sleeves. I keep my hands covered with the ends.

Maybe my ear will rip again.