- Sep 9, 2022
- 615
- 80
- 28
Wordcount: 1572
Trigger Warning's!!!: trauma response, death, blood, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids, panic attacks, minor sh behaviors
Please take the tw very seriously and do not read if it is something you are uncomfortable with or may find triggering! This gets dark.
Trigger Warning's!!!: trauma response, death, blood, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids, panic attacks, minor sh behaviors
Please take the tw very seriously and do not read if it is something you are uncomfortable with or may find triggering! This gets dark.
STEADY THE RIGHTS AND THE WRONGS
periwinklepaw | 09 months | demi-boy | he/they | physically easy (pacifist) | mentally easy | attack in bold #ccccff
periwinklepaw | 09 months | demi-boy | he/they | physically easy (pacifist) | mentally easy | attack in bold #ccccff
The feel of the wind in his fur never grows old. Pale pelt ruffles idly, rippling and swaying like the grass of the moorland spread out before him as the breeze presses against him like waves crashing against the shore. It is moments like these, watching the sun climbing the horizon to paint the world around him in shades of pink and gold, the scent of earth and wildflowers surrounding him heady and cloying, that remind him of why windclan is his home. Why it always be.
Well rested for once, a burst of energy pulses through the boy as another patrol member nudges him along - reminding him that he's here for a reason, that he's not alone. Twolegs have been leaving traps around and about, and they must look for them - too keep themselves safe, to avoid another unfortunate incident like with sunflowerpaw. Periwinklepaw doesn't want to see anyone else hurt, least of all another of those he thinks of as kin in all but blood.
At first, it seems as though things will be uneventful - clear blue gaze keeps a watchful eye upon the ground, wary. But there is nothing to see - nothing to scent, and the patrol pushes forwards, moving with the rising sun. Only windclan and the moorland - an occasional whiff of rabbit, rodent, or other creature. Utterly uneventful - a peaceful and tranquil morning all things considered. Until it's not.
A familiar acrid canine scent has him freezing even as it chokes him, leaving him gagging and dry heaving. Not again - no no no no!Suddenly he can hear every beat of his heart thundering in his ears, feel every gasping breath that leaves his chest only by sheer force. He's scared - he feels small. He feels like he did back then - barely out of the nursery, faced with a creature so fierce it took multiple warriors to take down, with jaws bearing down upon him and his pitifully short life flashing before his very eyes.
The rest of the patrol does not seem to notice it just yet, but he cannot stop the shaking of his limbs, cannot seem to find his voice. Every hair on his pelt stands straight up on end, hackles raising and pupils blown wide. One paw at a time - it's so hard, has it always been this hard? - he shuffles forwards slowly, silently praying and pleading to starclan that he is wrong - that it will be anything but that. His hopes are in vain as he finally catches sight of the creature, bottle brush tail and rust tinged brown fur unmistakable. It is not dog, like he'd heard another patrol had to deal with recently, but fox.
It takes a moment for him to see past his fear that tinges his vison black, to see past his hiding place among the wild undergrowth that owns the moorlands. The predator is smaller than he remembers - with to-big paws and ears and blue eyes, not peircing gold. A cub - milk scent still clinging to it. It squeals and barks and whines quietly, struggling against something he cannot see from here - a trap perhaps? The scent of blood is strong enough he can taste it on his tongue - stomach churning as it is. There is no sign of the rest - the scent long grown old. It is alone.
Knowing this does nothing to lessen his terror - to lessen his dread.
He wants to go back - to run, to flee. He wants to hide within the confines of the medicine den, beneath the sharp scent of herbs, to curl himself into a ball and hide away like a child. He certainly feels like a child. He wants his mom - no, he wants them both. He wants to hide beneath their fur like he did as a kit and never come out. He feels like he might cry.
It's all he can do to remember to breath, taking deep heaving breaths - in one two, out one two - as he watches with rapt attention, as though taking his eyes off the scene before him will be the moment it free's itself, the moment it comes bearing down upon him. Maybe it will be. But... the longer he watches, the more his bloodcurdling fear is replaced with something mush worse - pity. As the cub bites at itself, at the trap, flailing about so frantically and helplessly, he wonders how something so weak could grow into something so deadly. A creature of nightmares given life.
He supposes it's not much different than with cats - he remembers when azalea was just a tiny thing, and now she's - well, she's already killed once, hasn't she? Even sootstar must have been a kit once upon a time, long before he was born, must've been small and helpless like the fox before him. But... she'd grown up to be a killer, and so would the creature before him.
The situation - his choices, his fears - it all weighs so heavily upon his mind as he stares. The patrol will notice him missing soon, he thinks. Will see him hidden here in the grass, indecisive, thoughts racing through his mind. Will they think him a coward? A traitor? What rumors and lies will follow him around this time? Hes so tired of being looked down upon - of having his family, his name, dragged through the mud over the actions of one cat. It doesn't matter that she is his blood - and he loves her, he does - but he's tired of living beneath the shadow that hyacinth has cast.
He thinks of nightingalepaw, withdrawn as he has become, her mind so preoccupied with their clanmates perceptions. Thinks of vulturemask - the only cat within windclan who seemed to believe he could be something more if only he just tried. Thinks of dazzlepaw and azaleapaw, standing up to firefang alongside him. Getting punished alongside him. Thinks of his mothers words - thinks of gravelsnap, of how he's right, peri doesn't fit in to windclan, but so is she - he is more. Thinks of snailstride - who'd gotten his warrior name in spite of it all. He wants to be like them.
He wants to be able to stand up for himself, for them. Wants to protect what little he has left in this world - he cannot see another he cares about end up like dandelion, chased out and probably dead in a puddle of his own blood after all the injuries their clan had inflicted upon him. He wants to make them proud.
He can taste bile as he stands, slowly, clear blue gaze clouded with pain and unshed tears for hat he is about to do. "I'm sorry - i'm sorry i'msorry imsorryimsorrysorrysorry..." he thinks, as he darts forwards - the terrified cub matching his movements with its own as it tries to scurry away. He feels teeth and claws sink into fur and flesh, feels the hot rush of blood spill into his mouth, coat his teeth and his tongue. He feels it struggle - feels it weaken before it goes limp. Dead - it's dead.
He... killed it.
What has he done?
Bile spills up past his lips and splatters onto the ground as he heaves, choking and sobbing. He's shaking again - or had he never really stopped? He doesn't know anymore. His vision is blurry and he just - he wants to go home. He barely manages to catch his breath by the time the sound of pawsteps reach his ears, hurriedly wiping away the dampness on his fur, and blue eyes are hollow as he raises his gaze from the ground. "... I'm g-g-going back to c-camp" his jaw doesn't want to move and he can barely choke out the words.
He feels wrong - feels dirty, unclean. Like a monster. He needs to get the blood of his paws - out of his mouth. Wants, no, needs it gone - gone gone gone. He doesn't remember leaving, doesn't remember anything about the walk back to camp. His ears feel stuffed full of cotton - the sounds of the world drowned out by white noise. He doesn't know when he makes it back to camp, doesn't know what he said, if he said anything really, if anything was said to him. By the time he comes to he's sunk down in his nest, staring blankly at the wall, and he can almost convince himself it was naught but a dream - a terrible, terrible, dream.
But...he can still see it. Can still feel it - taste it. He's shaking again, shuddering, and he can't breathe. He wants to get it off - needs to get it off. Get it off! Paws scrape roughly at his skin, as though he can get it off that way - all he does is make it worse, nails sinking into flesh and fur just like he did to the fox. Hysterical laughter and choked sobs slip past his lips unbidden, tears dripping down dark cheeks, and he heaves and heaves - but nothing comes out. There's nothing left inside of him - just the memories and a soul crushing emptiness. A monster, a killer, a murderer. He is all of those things now. It does not matter that it was not a cat - he thought it would, that it would help, that it'd make things easier, but it doesn't. It doesn't.
...What has he done?
Well rested for once, a burst of energy pulses through the boy as another patrol member nudges him along - reminding him that he's here for a reason, that he's not alone. Twolegs have been leaving traps around and about, and they must look for them - too keep themselves safe, to avoid another unfortunate incident like with sunflowerpaw. Periwinklepaw doesn't want to see anyone else hurt, least of all another of those he thinks of as kin in all but blood.
At first, it seems as though things will be uneventful - clear blue gaze keeps a watchful eye upon the ground, wary. But there is nothing to see - nothing to scent, and the patrol pushes forwards, moving with the rising sun. Only windclan and the moorland - an occasional whiff of rabbit, rodent, or other creature. Utterly uneventful - a peaceful and tranquil morning all things considered. Until it's not.
A familiar acrid canine scent has him freezing even as it chokes him, leaving him gagging and dry heaving. Not again - no no no no!Suddenly he can hear every beat of his heart thundering in his ears, feel every gasping breath that leaves his chest only by sheer force. He's scared - he feels small. He feels like he did back then - barely out of the nursery, faced with a creature so fierce it took multiple warriors to take down, with jaws bearing down upon him and his pitifully short life flashing before his very eyes.
The rest of the patrol does not seem to notice it just yet, but he cannot stop the shaking of his limbs, cannot seem to find his voice. Every hair on his pelt stands straight up on end, hackles raising and pupils blown wide. One paw at a time - it's so hard, has it always been this hard? - he shuffles forwards slowly, silently praying and pleading to starclan that he is wrong - that it will be anything but that. His hopes are in vain as he finally catches sight of the creature, bottle brush tail and rust tinged brown fur unmistakable. It is not dog, like he'd heard another patrol had to deal with recently, but fox.
It takes a moment for him to see past his fear that tinges his vison black, to see past his hiding place among the wild undergrowth that owns the moorlands. The predator is smaller than he remembers - with to-big paws and ears and blue eyes, not peircing gold. A cub - milk scent still clinging to it. It squeals and barks and whines quietly, struggling against something he cannot see from here - a trap perhaps? The scent of blood is strong enough he can taste it on his tongue - stomach churning as it is. There is no sign of the rest - the scent long grown old. It is alone.
Knowing this does nothing to lessen his terror - to lessen his dread.
He wants to go back - to run, to flee. He wants to hide within the confines of the medicine den, beneath the sharp scent of herbs, to curl himself into a ball and hide away like a child. He certainly feels like a child. He wants his mom - no, he wants them both. He wants to hide beneath their fur like he did as a kit and never come out. He feels like he might cry.
It's all he can do to remember to breath, taking deep heaving breaths - in one two, out one two - as he watches with rapt attention, as though taking his eyes off the scene before him will be the moment it free's itself, the moment it comes bearing down upon him. Maybe it will be. But... the longer he watches, the more his bloodcurdling fear is replaced with something mush worse - pity. As the cub bites at itself, at the trap, flailing about so frantically and helplessly, he wonders how something so weak could grow into something so deadly. A creature of nightmares given life.
He supposes it's not much different than with cats - he remembers when azalea was just a tiny thing, and now she's - well, she's already killed once, hasn't she? Even sootstar must have been a kit once upon a time, long before he was born, must've been small and helpless like the fox before him. But... she'd grown up to be a killer, and so would the creature before him.
The situation - his choices, his fears - it all weighs so heavily upon his mind as he stares. The patrol will notice him missing soon, he thinks. Will see him hidden here in the grass, indecisive, thoughts racing through his mind. Will they think him a coward? A traitor? What rumors and lies will follow him around this time? Hes so tired of being looked down upon - of having his family, his name, dragged through the mud over the actions of one cat. It doesn't matter that she is his blood - and he loves her, he does - but he's tired of living beneath the shadow that hyacinth has cast.
He thinks of nightingalepaw, withdrawn as he has become, her mind so preoccupied with their clanmates perceptions. Thinks of vulturemask - the only cat within windclan who seemed to believe he could be something more if only he just tried. Thinks of dazzlepaw and azaleapaw, standing up to firefang alongside him. Getting punished alongside him. Thinks of his mothers words - thinks of gravelsnap, of how he's right, peri doesn't fit in to windclan, but so is she - he is more. Thinks of snailstride - who'd gotten his warrior name in spite of it all. He wants to be like them.
He wants to be able to stand up for himself, for them. Wants to protect what little he has left in this world - he cannot see another he cares about end up like dandelion, chased out and probably dead in a puddle of his own blood after all the injuries their clan had inflicted upon him. He wants to make them proud.
He can taste bile as he stands, slowly, clear blue gaze clouded with pain and unshed tears for hat he is about to do. "I'm sorry - i'm sorry i'msorry imsorryimsorrysorrysorry..." he thinks, as he darts forwards - the terrified cub matching his movements with its own as it tries to scurry away. He feels teeth and claws sink into fur and flesh, feels the hot rush of blood spill into his mouth, coat his teeth and his tongue. He feels it struggle - feels it weaken before it goes limp. Dead - it's dead.
He... killed it.
What has he done?
Bile spills up past his lips and splatters onto the ground as he heaves, choking and sobbing. He's shaking again - or had he never really stopped? He doesn't know anymore. His vision is blurry and he just - he wants to go home. He barely manages to catch his breath by the time the sound of pawsteps reach his ears, hurriedly wiping away the dampness on his fur, and blue eyes are hollow as he raises his gaze from the ground. "... I'm g-g-going back to c-camp" his jaw doesn't want to move and he can barely choke out the words.
He feels wrong - feels dirty, unclean. Like a monster. He needs to get the blood of his paws - out of his mouth. Wants, no, needs it gone - gone gone gone. He doesn't remember leaving, doesn't remember anything about the walk back to camp. His ears feel stuffed full of cotton - the sounds of the world drowned out by white noise. He doesn't know when he makes it back to camp, doesn't know what he said, if he said anything really, if anything was said to him. By the time he comes to he's sunk down in his nest, staring blankly at the wall, and he can almost convince himself it was naught but a dream - a terrible, terrible, dream.
But...he can still see it. Can still feel it - taste it. He's shaking again, shuddering, and he can't breathe. He wants to get it off - needs to get it off. Get it off! Paws scrape roughly at his skin, as though he can get it off that way - all he does is make it worse, nails sinking into flesh and fur just like he did to the fox. Hysterical laughter and choked sobs slip past his lips unbidden, tears dripping down dark cheeks, and he heaves and heaves - but nothing comes out. There's nothing left inside of him - just the memories and a soul crushing emptiness. A monster, a killer, a murderer. He is all of those things now. It does not matter that it was not a cat - he thought it would, that it would help, that it'd make things easier, but it doesn't. It doesn't.
...What has he done?
