- Aug 9, 2022
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He feels like he's dying but he supposes he technically is. Death is inevitable. It comes for everyone at some points, always lingering in the background and waiting patiently for its time to shine. But really he feels the headache pounding like an arrow through his head
But today is not that day, he's not dying. He just feels like he is, just feels the burden of life as he slowly ambles along to the edge of the camp and further, deeper into the territory, to where the river gives it's quiet humming like a mother soothing her kit. It's there where the dark tom takes a seat, close to the shore where the water could gently touch his paws as it swept by. It's dark, he is but one of many shadows here.
Insomnia was a plague, it lined the insides of his lungs and coated his eyes in a shield of restlessness. He could never close them long, could never allow himself the peace of rest and when he did it was an inky black pit that he fell until morning. Dreamless, empty, for the most part. He had his fair share of nightmares, and knew others did as well. Like twisted beasts of the sea they hid just under the surface where none could see them, but occasionally a fin or head would pop up; visible for a split second, before diving back down and out of sight. Lurkers, stalkers. There was no getting rid of them so you just had to cope, learn to accept that every so often one would grab you and drag you down. You'd struggle, suffocate, but in the end they let you go.
The aftermath of the day felt like fire inside him, he felt his throat tighten at the thought of it.
He was a stray ember caught in the wind, a blemish of sparking flames. Pain and he were old friends. For long they walked side by side, paw by paw.
He knew it and it knew him. Inside and out, from tail tip to nose. He could trace the lines of every scar and still feel the burning sensation that lingered with old wounds.
With his eyes closed he let the feelings of hopelessness bask over him. Despite each bruise, each scar, each bright drop of blood on the earthy floor, he never once allowed the despair to enter his mind. Pain was temporary, sorrow lingered for ages like a stain.
So he grit his teeth and pushed through it. It didn't matter how many times others raised their claws to him. Didn't matter the words spat into his face. If he existed purely as the punching bag for the worst of them to the most broken of them then so be it. He was king of his own command, lost adrift in a sea of possibilities and he chose here.
He had to be better for RiverClan.
@COAST