[html]  |
mall-lowercase; font-size:8pt;">ooc;
this is where Corsair's 'depression' takes a turn for the better. ;D oh and someday...he might even consider telling Garnet bout his screwed-up history. ;P
mall-lowercase; font-size:8pt;">ic;
The black-beady eyes of the crow bore into Corsair, staring accusingly up at him. This seemed fitting somehow, feasting on a symbol of death. A plague that ingested another ill omen, the unluckiness of the black bird swallowed up by the misfortune raging in his own body. Perhaps if he wasn’t so convinced of his own condition, he would wonder if his bad luck was really fate, or if he himself was causing it, but at this point, he’d gotten so far that he was now unable to take these kinds of musings seriously. If only he had a solid ledge upon which to stand, instead of hovering over a black emptiness of uncertainty…. Corsair sighed, his spirits plummeting down another notch or two. It was depressing, this business of living. Before, he might not have thought so, but the past was done and gone and there was nothing he could do. Time travel was, after all impossible any way you looked at it.
Leaning down, he took small dainty bites of the bird, it’s blood soon dying the fur around his muzzle red. The way he looked now, he probably gave off the appearance of an insane murderer, but appearances no longer mattered in his desolate world. It wasn’t as if he had a place in society anymore to begin with. Sometimes he wondered if he was simply purposely insisting that he was cursed in a fit of denial. It might be plausible, but he didn’t want to change his way of thinking, because it would hurt too much to accept the other option, that such a degree of betrayal and violence was possible in this world, natural even. It was better at the moment to simply accept all the blame, even if it gave him the appearance of a small child unwilling to view the world in a bad light despite knowing the truth of the matter.
The bird tasted of despair. The meat was tough and chewy and dry, despite the warm crimson liquid that dripped from it. It was bland and reminded Corsair of a sadness that originated from the core of your being, spreading outwards and infecting everything it passed. Such depressing thoughts, but then, this way of thinking had become normal to him, which was a sad thing in itself. He’d been corrupted by himself, his mind turning against him, taunting him and slowly driving him into the depths of madness to the point where he sometimes talked to himself just to reassure himself that he was still there, still someone who existed. Company would be welcome right about now, he thought to himself, and then smiled humorlessly. Even knowing that it was an impossible thing and even if someone came, he would simply perform another one of his infamous vanishing acts, he still had the same thought every now and then, whenever the loneliness became almost unbearable. A pathetic way to live, was it not?
|
|
[/html]
|
