04-23-2018, 07:10 PM
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
ooc y'all do n o t have to read all of this okay you can just skip to the last few paragraphs if you want <33
Hazel hated dreams.
Of course, there was the possibility that everyone dreamt the way she did; because surely, most people had dreams of flashing colors and disorienting images that were always just out of focus. Surely, they would see the rosy hues of dawn glow on the horizon and feel a swelling sense of giddy comfort. Surely, they would know of the untroubled curiosity that bubbled up when dawn would suddenly turn dark and the air would grow frigid; when there was the brush of a breeze against their cheek, and the tug of momentum in their stomach. They would know of the confusion upon realizing that maybe this was not supposed to be a happy place. It was supposed to be morbid and cold, and...why did it seem so intriguing?
That sounded like an everyday dream, right?
No. No, it didn’t. Hazel was very well aware of this, and it frustrated her to an endless extent. But...she would always prefer frustration over terror. Every single time. Because Hazel would, without a doubt, rather have puzzling and irritating dreams over night terrors.
They were hardly nightmares. No, these — from these, Hazel would wake up screaming, her lip shiny with blood and her paws trembling with fear. Throughout the day she would remain shaken, frazzled and upset. Dread would sit, cold and heavy, on her nerves until she forced herself to sleep the next night. Anxiety would creep underneath her pelt, sinking into her brain until she was biting her lip again.
These night terrors were always the same: consistently showing a different mistake, a different failure, but the same reaction from the same feline. In one, a broken vase lay shattered on a tiled floor. The details were hazy, but the bitter scent of chocolate permeating the room, layered with something bitter and angry, was sharp in her nose. The scrape of claws would drag itself over Hazel’s eardrums, and she could feel herself pressing her skinny frame closer and closer to the floor. Pressing against that cold surface until she was sure she could disappear into it, and escape the words that were being yelled. The words that reduced her self worth to less than the lint under the cabinets. The words that could never be healed like the claw marks on her forearm could.
But memories of an abused past were a common trope, and Hazel was no more entitled to something special than the next person because of it. She just wanted to leave it behind and let it go. The sooner she could do that, the better off she would be.
But by “better off” was in no way meant literally. Unfortunately, Arion didn’t exactly receive that message, and had promptly gone from a lively trot to a jolting halt, pitching Hazel forward from her perch between his ears. She hit the ground with a startled cry, unhurt, but caught off guard and awoken in the most brutal way.
“Thanks, Arion.” She snapped at the colt, glaring at him. The steed blew a huff of air at her through his nostrils, ruffling her fur. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that he had just thrown his friend. Still, he reached out, lips snuffling at her, until she groggily pushed him away, the feeling of his teeth grazing her skin making her itch with discomfort. “Ge’off, you lump,” She snorted. Arion relented, looking as smug as one horse possibly could.
Hazel pushed her hips back and arched in a luxurious stretch, claws scratching at the dirt and eyes squeezed tightly shut. She couldn’t say she was actually mad at him for waking her up — in fact, she was glad, for he had woken her from a depressing recollection of something that had just happened a month prior. But now…
“Where...are we?” The cocoa colored femme wondered aloud, standing to see rolling fields stretch across the ground in front of them. Arion nickered, his hoof scraping the ground. It didn’t take a genius to see the colt was high on the idea of stretching his legs, letting his joints bend and snap with satisfaction.
Just as Hazel turned to tell him to stay put, the young Thoroughbred streaked away, kicking up a spatter of dirt and tossing his head. Hazel’s stomach sank, for she could smell the scent markers in the general vicinity. They were unfamiliar and defensive, a clear claim of territory. And Hazel’s colt had just taken a (very fast) stroll right through the closed gate.
“Great,” She muttered.
Hazel hated dreams.
Of course, there was the possibility that everyone dreamt the way she did; because surely, most people had dreams of flashing colors and disorienting images that were always just out of focus. Surely, they would see the rosy hues of dawn glow on the horizon and feel a swelling sense of giddy comfort. Surely, they would know of the untroubled curiosity that bubbled up when dawn would suddenly turn dark and the air would grow frigid; when there was the brush of a breeze against their cheek, and the tug of momentum in their stomach. They would know of the confusion upon realizing that maybe this was not supposed to be a happy place. It was supposed to be morbid and cold, and...why did it seem so intriguing?
That sounded like an everyday dream, right?
No. No, it didn’t. Hazel was very well aware of this, and it frustrated her to an endless extent. But...she would always prefer frustration over terror. Every single time. Because Hazel would, without a doubt, rather have puzzling and irritating dreams over night terrors.
They were hardly nightmares. No, these — from these, Hazel would wake up screaming, her lip shiny with blood and her paws trembling with fear. Throughout the day she would remain shaken, frazzled and upset. Dread would sit, cold and heavy, on her nerves until she forced herself to sleep the next night. Anxiety would creep underneath her pelt, sinking into her brain until she was biting her lip again.
These night terrors were always the same: consistently showing a different mistake, a different failure, but the same reaction from the same feline. In one, a broken vase lay shattered on a tiled floor. The details were hazy, but the bitter scent of chocolate permeating the room, layered with something bitter and angry, was sharp in her nose. The scrape of claws would drag itself over Hazel’s eardrums, and she could feel herself pressing her skinny frame closer and closer to the floor. Pressing against that cold surface until she was sure she could disappear into it, and escape the words that were being yelled. The words that reduced her self worth to less than the lint under the cabinets. The words that could never be healed like the claw marks on her forearm could.
But memories of an abused past were a common trope, and Hazel was no more entitled to something special than the next person because of it. She just wanted to leave it behind and let it go. The sooner she could do that, the better off she would be.
But by “better off” was in no way meant literally. Unfortunately, Arion didn’t exactly receive that message, and had promptly gone from a lively trot to a jolting halt, pitching Hazel forward from her perch between his ears. She hit the ground with a startled cry, unhurt, but caught off guard and awoken in the most brutal way.
“Thanks, Arion.” She snapped at the colt, glaring at him. The steed blew a huff of air at her through his nostrils, ruffling her fur. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that he had just thrown his friend. Still, he reached out, lips snuffling at her, until she groggily pushed him away, the feeling of his teeth grazing her skin making her itch with discomfort. “Ge’off, you lump,” She snorted. Arion relented, looking as smug as one horse possibly could.
Hazel pushed her hips back and arched in a luxurious stretch, claws scratching at the dirt and eyes squeezed tightly shut. She couldn’t say she was actually mad at him for waking her up — in fact, she was glad, for he had woken her from a depressing recollection of something that had just happened a month prior. But now…
“Where...are we?” The cocoa colored femme wondered aloud, standing to see rolling fields stretch across the ground in front of them. Arion nickered, his hoof scraping the ground. It didn’t take a genius to see the colt was high on the idea of stretching his legs, letting his joints bend and snap with satisfaction.
Just as Hazel turned to tell him to stay put, the young Thoroughbred streaked away, kicking up a spatter of dirt and tossing his head. Hazel’s stomach sank, for she could smell the scent markers in the general vicinity. They were unfamiliar and defensive, a clear claim of territory. And Hazel’s colt had just taken a (very fast) stroll right through the closed gate.
“Great,” She muttered.
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better
