the lived life is living death - tinsel hats

[fulzanin]

[align=center][div style="width: 55%; text-align: justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Feza had curled further in on herself, wings pulling ever closer to her fluffy form. The terror refused to leave, not even when Wormwood spoke to tell her of his ridiculous she was being. It was what she took from the words, the words sounding altered as any words would have been in such a panic stricken state. Now it was burrowing further, and her head sharply glanced behind her to the doorway of her home. What if the nightmare had only been a metaphor? What if it was to hint that if Wormwood didn't kill her, the boxes would? It had to be a message from the cardboard boxes. It had to be. There was no other explanation for such a horrific nightmare- Feza would bestow any sort of explanation to it that meant it would be less of a threat. Yet that sort of thinking only furthered the fright: her gods weren't happy with what she had been doing. They would do something about it, that's what the dream had meant.

A cruel laugh parted from her, shaken and fearful yet almost capable of dipping barely into the realm of sarcasm. "'What the fuck is wrong with you, Feza'?" She echoed, eyes focused on the floor right before her, "'Why do you think this is okay'? It seems to- it's- it definitely is you that means I have to stop. You've gone- gone and- gone ahead and made that very clear. You said- you- that you didn't want any more of them. This. All of this. All of what I do." Her voice was shaking, and terror continued to lay in all of her words. She did her best to mimic the other's hateful tone that had been used towards her, but it was the overall tone of fright that truly made it sound as if Feza wasn't even able to deepen her tone from it's ever high pitched state. The tone of fear almost could manage it, but in truth it didn't fully manage to dampen the pitch.

"Nothing wrong right- right now, but the moment that I- I get done with this, the moment I am, you're gonna start, aren't you? Because it's- it's not okay. It's not wrong right now, but it will be, won't it?" Feza kneaded at the floor beneath her feet. Her mind couldn't grasp that giving people noisy trinkets without asking for their permission was wrong. Especially now with her assumed threat of death by the boxes that she worshipped. She had to, yet it was considered wrong. It got her yelled at. She hated getting yelled at, it reminded her of when her birth family had tossed her out. She wasn't normal, she was pinks and blues and yellows, and when she had come back to try to ask why her colors were the basis for her exile, the shouts and swears had been all she could hear for days. It was all to familiar- it was all things that Feza desperately pushed down, and now a flimsy nightmare had brought the repressed memory to life. She hated it, she didn't want to be yelled at again.

The mutated snow leopard whimpered, pressing herself against the floor again when the other laughed. Now he was laughing at her, for being so scared, wasn't he? For being so foolish, for being so noisy, right? She whined, and heaved out a sob of a sort. Sharp teeth clenched together, a forced motion to try to keep such retained within. It failed, but the snow leopard tried to withhold her pained noise nonetheless. "Yes they are. Yes they are. They're gods," Feza insisted in a disheartened wail. "They don't talk to- to people like me but they, they, they will one day! One day," she added. No, they wouldn't talk to her. Not when she was failing them. Not when she was being such a disgrace, not able to keep the smile on her face. How selfish, she momentarily thought, she was being all caught up with her own problems then finishing these tinsel hats. Feza pressed her head against the floor, curled together as small as she physically could manage. It was uncomfortable, her wings were pressing into her chest and her legs hurt from how tightly they were pulled together.