– late evening; the parapets ,
Here, in the parapets, we're not quite in the clouds; they still loom above us, scudding across the starless skies without movement––and yet the corpses that litter the ground are out of place nonetheless, like cut-outs pasted ineptly unto the scene. A male Tsol'aa is here, his pristine countenance only further contributing to the bizarre quality of the dead things. I look between him and them, nose wrinkling at the wrongness of the situation. I could remove the offending items, I suppose, but I find that in spite of how much their presence bothers me, I can't bring myself to dispose of them. And so the dead things will remain, at least for the time being .. a perpetual smear, a scream amongst the silence.
The Tsol'aa leaves and I realize the true reason for my discomfort. It has nothing to do with the corpses themselves, but rather that smear, the screaming they utter and the silence they consequentially mar. I perceive this to be a place of peace and they're ruining that, these damned dead things, with their filth and noise. I don't want the corpses gone as much as I do their affections.
As I think about this, I can't help but wonder. About you. About .. well, us. I wonder, is this another something I inherited from you, Mother Dearest? This vehement dislike of change, the stabbing irritation that springs up when a thing doesn't go according to how I thought it would? Did you give this to me? The anxiety, the jitters; maybe even the shifts in mood that I can't seem to control? Or is this me?
How much of me is me and what pieces are yours? I think about you all the time, you know. I think about where you might be, about what you might say if you could see me now. I'm decided, for once, grown enough to detach from Father's side and chose for myself what it is that I want, because in the end, isn't that all that really matters? Would you approve of this, Mother? Are you still with me, present but just invisible; swimming through my veins, occasionally asserting yourself in my quirks and unhelpable mannerisms?
Or perhaps Father is .. was .. right and I'm simply being foolish. Maybe you really did perish shortly after giving birth to me and thus, are dead, as dead as the minutely decaying matter occurring on the corpses around me? Maybe I was simply never meant to have a Mother, just like some were never meant to be Ashtani or Mhaldorian or Eleusian. Unless Father was once again right when he said that there are no true Gods, that we carve our own path and that's that?
Did you believe that, Mother? Dead or alive, did you ever buy into his tales, his lies and his riddles? I tried not to, I really did .. but I think a part of me did anyway ..
"Individually we are weak, like a single twig. But as a bundle, we form a mighty faggot."
LGBTQ OOC clan, IG. Syntax: CLANHELP PRIDE.