no prayer i could say

Harlowe D'Angelo · 12-03-2010, 12:00 PM

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Word Count :: 419 Anathema-potential-people-things. Yesss. Don't care how many!

In the days since his mother had returned, Harlowe had not returned to Dahlia de Mai. Their scent was fading from his coat fast, replaced by the many scents of these new wolves, this new pack. Harlowe did not care about any of them at first, not even this grand extended family that echoed old like Larkspur did -- the only thing that mattered in his mind was the return of his mother. She had come back to him, and he was only elated at first. When this initial high had worn, however, the tawny youth felt a sickening rise of bitterness within him. She hadn't returned alone -- there was a brother, a younger one. The chocolate-patched youth found himself jealous of this child. He had never felt this way about his sisters (and he honestly missed them, even Rio), but there it was, plain as day.

The olive-eyed youth wandered beyond the edges of their temporary encampment, or what it seemed to be, anyway. For the most part, everyone was milling around, trying to get organized. Harlowe had no part in any of it; he had spent the first three days following Naniko around endlessly, and the past two days had been spent sulking around on the edges of their camp, avoiding interaction with everyone. That was when the jealousy had struck him, and that was when all the bad feelings that had evaporated at his mother's return came back to him. He had done something awful to his sister. He had tried to do something awful to the gray stranger, and he would have done something awful to the black and white stranger, if only his body had cooperated. His own body had betrayed him!

He had not dared attempt so much as self-pleasure since that instance, for he was too fearful of what might happen. Instead, he contemplated it endlessly, which only snowballed his general anxiety until he was a tense, terse mess of nerves and aggression. Her return was supposed to make everything better, everything! This simply was not fair, and Harlowe was beyond upset that his mother had not acted as the soothing panacea for his every ailment. Digging his claws sharply into the grass, he scribbled nearly illegible thoughts into his notebook, his pen tearing across the page at breakneck speed until his writing became nothing more than scratching lines into the page. He tore it out and threw it, suppressing a howl of rage until it became a choked, whimpering growl.

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