06-11-2019, 12:10 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: georgia;"]//tw for blood. it isn’t gory or anything, just a small cut. figured I’d warn y’all anyway.
Selby wasn’t one for flower gardening. They used a lot of water, time, and effort. And for what? To look pretty? He didn’t hate the blossoming plants, just disliked the effort they took. His herbs would always take priority.
Still, overtime, the black feline had found packets of seeds for flowers he had planned to give to Pastel. But every day that went by that he didn’t see her, he doubted her return more and more. It felt as though the Roux family, once close and playful, was falling apart. His sister gone and his father... while Crow was not gone, he was emotionally distant at best. Emotionally absent at worst. And that was fine. Selby was a big boy now. He didn’t need Crow to hover over him and do all the things he’d done when he was a child. Just... maybe a check in would be nice, just every so often.
The seeds though. Guilt prickled at the base of his spine every time he saw them. If only he had done something different somewhere down the line. Maybe if he had begged her to stay in Tanglewood. Maybe if he had been brave enough to tag along, though he had only been a kit at the time.
Eventually Selby got tired of the guilt and sorrow he felt when he saw them. ’What if’s and ‘maybe’s aren’t emotionally productive, he told himself, perhaps a bit harshly. So what to do with them? Throwing them out would be wasteful. He knew of no one else who would take the time to tend to them and make them flourish. He briefly considered gifting them to Crow, but his father proved himself barely capable of remembering to eat or sleep. So, Selby decided to plant them himself.
It felt like hardly any time at all passed between the seeds being just planted and a thick bush of roses, but in reality it had taken several months. He’d had a birthday (a bona fide adult now!) and reconnected with Crow, however awkward that had been. And soon the bush required a good pruning, as long, sparse, thorny branches began impeding entrance to his home.
So he took a pair of sharp shears and cut away the long, potentially harmful stems. The work was oddly therapeutic, and he hummed a forgotten lullaby to himself as he worked. After he had finished, he set the shears down against the wall of his house and scooped up the branches and prepared-
”Ouch! Goddam-ng...” he exclaimed loudly, dropping the branches with a sharp inhale of pain. One stray thorn had made its way to a paw pad, piercing the thick skin there. Frozen with morbid fascination, he watched a bead of blood to well slowly to the surface, overflow, and begin its descent slowly from his paw to the ground. It was not a terrible energy, in fact, it would likely hardly bother him in an hour, but a surprising one nonetheless.
Selby wasn’t one for flower gardening. They used a lot of water, time, and effort. And for what? To look pretty? He didn’t hate the blossoming plants, just disliked the effort they took. His herbs would always take priority.
Still, overtime, the black feline had found packets of seeds for flowers he had planned to give to Pastel. But every day that went by that he didn’t see her, he doubted her return more and more. It felt as though the Roux family, once close and playful, was falling apart. His sister gone and his father... while Crow was not gone, he was emotionally distant at best. Emotionally absent at worst. And that was fine. Selby was a big boy now. He didn’t need Crow to hover over him and do all the things he’d done when he was a child. Just... maybe a check in would be nice, just every so often.
The seeds though. Guilt prickled at the base of his spine every time he saw them. If only he had done something different somewhere down the line. Maybe if he had begged her to stay in Tanglewood. Maybe if he had been brave enough to tag along, though he had only been a kit at the time.
Eventually Selby got tired of the guilt and sorrow he felt when he saw them. ’What if’s and ‘maybe’s aren’t emotionally productive, he told himself, perhaps a bit harshly. So what to do with them? Throwing them out would be wasteful. He knew of no one else who would take the time to tend to them and make them flourish. He briefly considered gifting them to Crow, but his father proved himself barely capable of remembering to eat or sleep. So, Selby decided to plant them himself.
It felt like hardly any time at all passed between the seeds being just planted and a thick bush of roses, but in reality it had taken several months. He’d had a birthday (a bona fide adult now!) and reconnected with Crow, however awkward that had been. And soon the bush required a good pruning, as long, sparse, thorny branches began impeding entrance to his home.
So he took a pair of sharp shears and cut away the long, potentially harmful stems. The work was oddly therapeutic, and he hummed a forgotten lullaby to himself as he worked. After he had finished, he set the shears down against the wall of his house and scooped up the branches and prepared-
”Ouch! Goddam-ng...” he exclaimed loudly, dropping the branches with a sharp inhale of pain. One stray thorn had made its way to a paw pad, piercing the thick skin there. Frozen with morbid fascination, he watched a bead of blood to well slowly to the surface, overflow, and begin its descent slowly from his paw to the ground. It was not a terrible energy, in fact, it would likely hardly bother him in an hour, but a surprising one nonetheless.