- Apr 30, 2023
- 211
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When Thriftpaw catches the rabbit, he doesn't kill it.
It's wiry and long, with a thick dewlap that drapes over its splayed forelegs like lichen over wood. Thriftpaw has done something like this once before; he has held down prey with the weight of himself, caught in a strange trance. The rabbit is frightened into a near-complete stillness, broken only by the constant twitching of its nose and the rapid rise and fall of its flank. Thriftpaw knows the feeling, but it isn't sympathy that stops his teeth from its throat. His mind moves too quickly for him to catch the thoughts — scattered, the great many things that he should be doing in this moment.
He should kill the rabbit. He shouldn't be like it: he should be anything but still.
His body, despite or because of his efforts, remains as it is.
Ghostwail hasn't had the time for Thriftpaw lately. She said she was getting him a meal, was trying to comfort him, and then she hadn't come back to Thriftpaw. He was annoyed or he was relieved. Dizzyingly, he was both. But then days passed and Gravelsnap had gotten sick and Ghostwail still let Thriftpaw be, and Thriftpaw finds himself missing her in her absence. She declared him to be her son after being kinder to him than she has ever been and then she just—!
The rabbit makes a sound. Thriftpaw didn't know they could do that. He'd tightened his grip, he must have. The rabbit makes a sound like a wheeze; Thriftpaw will remember that. He doesn't relax his grip, even when his toes ache from holding this position. He drags his claws down the rabbit's flank instead — it stiffens but doesn't try to get away, and its skin parts as easily as if Thriftpaw was passing through grass. He doesn't think of himself as angry. His heart beats like he is terrified, and that is just one more thing him and the rabbit have in common.
When at last he ends the rabbit, teeth gripped to the back of its neck, it is only moments later. He hadn't held it long, he thinks. He reminds himself: he hadn't held it long. Thriftpaw hadn't done anything wrong. He was just —?
He —? (liked feeling scary to something, liked feeling big and important and dangerous, but he doesn't have the words for that.)
Thriftpaw drops the rabbit, looks away from the red scores marking its pelt, and ignores the very same color staining his white paw. Guilt blossoms in his chest, and Thriftpaw has met guilt often enough now that he knows how to fold it into nothing and press it somewhere else in his mind. He doesn't need to think about it. Thriftpaw hadn't done anything wrong.
It's wiry and long, with a thick dewlap that drapes over its splayed forelegs like lichen over wood. Thriftpaw has done something like this once before; he has held down prey with the weight of himself, caught in a strange trance. The rabbit is frightened into a near-complete stillness, broken only by the constant twitching of its nose and the rapid rise and fall of its flank. Thriftpaw knows the feeling, but it isn't sympathy that stops his teeth from its throat. His mind moves too quickly for him to catch the thoughts — scattered, the great many things that he should be doing in this moment.
He should kill the rabbit. He shouldn't be like it: he should be anything but still.
His body, despite or because of his efforts, remains as it is.
Ghostwail hasn't had the time for Thriftpaw lately. She said she was getting him a meal, was trying to comfort him, and then she hadn't come back to Thriftpaw. He was annoyed or he was relieved. Dizzyingly, he was both. But then days passed and Gravelsnap had gotten sick and Ghostwail still let Thriftpaw be, and Thriftpaw finds himself missing her in her absence. She declared him to be her son after being kinder to him than she has ever been and then she just—!
The rabbit makes a sound. Thriftpaw didn't know they could do that. He'd tightened his grip, he must have. The rabbit makes a sound like a wheeze; Thriftpaw will remember that. He doesn't relax his grip, even when his toes ache from holding this position. He drags his claws down the rabbit's flank instead — it stiffens but doesn't try to get away, and its skin parts as easily as if Thriftpaw was passing through grass. He doesn't think of himself as angry. His heart beats like he is terrified, and that is just one more thing him and the rabbit have in common.
When at last he ends the rabbit, teeth gripped to the back of its neck, it is only moments later. He hadn't held it long, he thinks. He reminds himself: he hadn't held it long. Thriftpaw hadn't done anything wrong. He was just —?
He —? (liked feeling scary to something, liked feeling big and important and dangerous, but he doesn't have the words for that.)
Thriftpaw drops the rabbit, looks away from the red scores marking its pelt, and ignores the very same color staining his white paw. Guilt blossoms in his chest, and Thriftpaw has met guilt often enough now that he knows how to fold it into nothing and press it somewhere else in his mind. He doesn't need to think about it. Thriftpaw hadn't done anything wrong.
WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 6 MOONS
