a wish for wings that work
#4
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He wasn't really sure when anything had changed, and maybe it never had to, but like many other things that had come to him since the fever had caught him, he was, for one reason or another, acutely aware of the fact that he loved his daughter. Nevermind that a slut and a monster had created her, and nevermind that she'd been a burden he'd been unwilling to bear. The initial touch had almost hurt, but the ones that came afterwards were oddly comforting, if not a little terrifying. Touch was something he often deprived himself of; it had been, and still was to some extent, his belief that the only reason anyone would want to touch him was to kill him.



You're a good girl, he said, though he wasn't sure what he was responding to. I'm fine, the hybrid continued, I can walk. He laughed, though it was a weak and strained sound. And it was a joke no one would understand, though it wasn't that funny anyway.

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