[M] I want to believe

Harlowe D'Angelo · 03-10-2011, 07:12 AM

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Word Count → 577 :: marking mature naow :o

The pain had burned through most of the night, and with morning came terrible, burning fever like fire. Harlowe was maybe sick before he was stabbed, maybe not -- in any case, a raging infection had taken hold in his body, and the rather sensitive area from which it originated only served to further propagate the illness throughout his body. In his sorry and sickly state the boy (for surely, he was no longer a man) could do nothing but whimper for his mother. She would not come -- she never did. He was a fool for having ever beckoned for her in the first place.

Something in him drove him out of the dank and mostly empty cave where he made his home. His steps were staggered, his hind legs dragging behind him. The boy had attempted to shift to his four-legged form, but found the transformation excruciating enough to make him pass out several times, unable to complete it. The boy did not know whether or not anyone had attended to him; he had simply held himself together until the blood had ceased flowing. It was still caked to his stomach and thighs, his hands and all of his legs, his tail, though it was no longer fresh. Instead, it was rusted and browning crimson, still patchy wet in places where the boy still leaked blood.

Even madness could not fade her scent from his nose. It was all he could pay attention to anymore -- everything else was just mindless, senseless noise -- he did not have to listen to it. She was the only thing that mattered, and he could smell her. He staggered slowly through the main caves, his dulled jade eyes half-lidded, a permanent grimace of pain on his chocolate-stained face. Whether others saw him or cared, Harlowe did not know or care. She was here. He wandered into the family cave area, not recognizing it, though another smell did enter his consciousness. Larkspur.

The faint sound of voices entered his ears, and he recognized that growl as belonging to the man. New madness erupted within the boy as he rounded a corner and saw his mother, Larkspur, and children. Children -- he did not know these children, and his jade eyes swung wildly from them to Naniko. She did not have time for him, but she had time for these things, whoever they were -- a terrible wail rose from his throat and he lurched toward them, toward her. “Mama,” he whined. “I paid for her, I paid for Rio, and you still won't love me,” he said, hands gesturing to the mangled mess that was his former crotch.

“You picked these things and not me,” he said, sudden rage flooding him for the small puppies. He did not even know their names, and yet here his mother was, doting on them when she could not be bothered to see her own son. He had bled for her, even -- he had endured his punishment, meted out by the orange-shaded stranger. The boy staggered toward the puppies, something like rage plastered to his face -- there was no sane thought left within the boy anymore. He had done everything he could think of to attain her attention, and yet here she was, doling it to these children. He would rid the world of them, he would rid the world of everyone else and then maybe she would fucking notice him.

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