05-18-2010, 12:13 PM
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Of course his mother would bring the creature back home. And of course she’d tend to his wounds, attempting to revive him back into a state of supposed glory. Mkhai hadn’t any idea what his siblings felt for the man, but he despised him. He should not be so pathetic—he should not be dying. He had not met the man when he’d seduced his mother, but all that he saw and had seen was a worthless beast on the verge of death, bleeding from lacerations that no devil should possess. Peering across his body from the edge of his eye, he saw a man utterly covered in past and present physical injury—reveling in the destruction of his body as he was more than likely unable to defend himself. Scars were weakness, blood was weakness, and death was ultimate failure. Mkhai was beautiful, and he’d never allow someone to mar his features so easily. Samael was marked from head to tail, bearing the image of a beast that didn’t care whether or not he was wounded, and held no respect for his body. Mkhai’s body was his temple and his prized possession—he had to respect it for none else were worthy of such an honor. Djeserit had left, presumably in search of food. He could care less where his siblings had vanished to, despite his adoration of them. Silently, he approached the sleeping coyote, moving above him to peer in silent revulsion. Perhaps, if he’d been something better Mkhai could have grown to love him. But he’d been disappointed, and so terribly at that. He was so great, had been told such great things, and yet he’d been lied to. This was unforgivable. Slowly, his fingers made their way to his throat, gently stroking the flesh there as thoughts of murder filled his head. He could so easily take away his life, removing him from the world. Was this all that there was to be found? Viciously, he sunk his fingers into his neck, feeling claws part skin effortlessly. He wanted him dead, and he’d do it on his own if he had to. Suddenly, vice-like hands gripped his, pulling him away. Blood-red eyes met his—a Cheshire grin forming beneath them. “Patricide is frowned upon in many interpretations of the bible,” Samael said, pushing him to the floor. He was larger than he was, and not as weak as he’d initially thought—at least, not physically. Within an instant he was on top of him, muzzle inches from his own. “You wish to kill me that badly? Then do it. But don’t expect my life to be simply handed to you without any effort on your part,” he continued. The dark, bitter anger steadily seeped through his veins, hating him more than anything in this moment as he felt utterly helpless—he hated the creature, and he hated himself for possessing such a small body hindered by both breed and age. A soft sound tore past his lips, but he didn’t move or respond. He turned his face away, unable to stare back into the eyes of the man that held him down, able to kill him instantly if he so chose—and with reason, for Mkhai had just attempted to take his life as he’d slept. But Samael moved, removing himself from Mkhai and returning to a seated position on the ground before him. “You wish that I was something that I’m not.” Mkhai rose as well, quickly pushing himself into a dignified position as if nothing had just passed between them. Crimson eyes were narrowed, staring suspiciously at his father. “What is it about me that you hate the most?” Samael asked. “I’d love to know.” The bastard couldn’t even remember who or what he was, and yet he wished to ask questions. Was there some semblance of a self there within his tattered soul? “I was expecting something else,” was all that the boy said, rising to his feet and turning away. He didn’t wish to be around him anymore. He couldn’t stand the sight of the features that so mirrored his own. He’d have been surprised if he’d come after him, striking into his turned back as he walked away. |