[cw: repeating words, hallucinations, blood, violence, slight gore, paranoia]
THE CONTENT WARNINGS ARE PREVALENT THROUGH THIS WHOLE WORK, AS SUCH, THE WHOLE THING IS MARKED UNDER A SPOILER. PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF FIRST AND FOREMOST IF IT GETS TOO HEAVY <33
Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out.
GET.
HER.
OUT!
She can’t take it, she wants to leave she wants to leave she cannot be here anymore where the eyes - oh, stars, the eyes - are watching her every move, bloodshot as they judge and berate her every decision, every hair out of place on a pelt that she has not groomed in days. The eyes watch her even now. She can’t see them but she knows they’re there, she can sense them boring into her, ripping fur from flesh and flesh from bone until she is nothing more than a skeleton flayed open, raw and bloody and exposed, all her flaws and everything she is on display and it’s eating her alive, oh, StarClan, it’s eating her alive.
She’d held it mostly together for so long now, so long she’d put on a brave face, so long she’d snapped at those who challenged her, exiled those who disagreed with how she had done things. She’d killed. Twice she had killed and only once was that in defense of her own life. The walls of her den close in on her, she can’t breath. It’s cold. It’s crowded. There is pressure on her chest and her head and she can’t stay here. She can’t leave - she shouldn’t leave. She has to leave. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out. Get her out!!
Dilute tortoiseshell fur shifts in her nest as the traumatized, stressed and panicking cat stands, her breath coming out heavy and uneven. She can slip out of camp. It won’t be hard. It’ll be so easy. She’ll get some fresh air and then… and then what? She has no plan but there are eyes watching her. She sees them everywhere she looks. They’re on the snow covered ground, they’re on the stone cliffs, they’re in the entrances to the dens, they’re in the sky, they’re in her own pelt when she looks down-
A near hysterical sob catches in her throat and she feels like a child. She is a child. Not exactly. Maybe not anymore. She never got to be a young adult. She never got to feel secure in her status as a warrior. The weight of the world was shoved onto her back too early and she is drowning. A cat of RiverClan drowning. How funny.
A walk. She needs a walk. Fresh air in the territory. A dip in the river. The icy chill will help. It will help. It needs to help. She needs it to help.
Camp is quiet. Even if it isn’t she does not notice, the world sounds dull and the eyes are so loud as they stare and blink accusingly because everything that happened is her fault. It’s her fault. It’s her fault. It’s her fault ThunderClan found their camp. It’s her fault Gingerstar died. It’s her fault Falconfeather died. It’s her fault Fogkit was taken. It’s her fault RiverClan is a mess. It’s her fault the forest wants them all dead. It’s her fault for choosing one of the pawful of cats she felt she truly could trust as her deputy despite her only just receiving her long overdue name… does Birdsnow hate her too..? Of course she does, why wouldn’t she? Everyone else hates her, Birdsnow would be a fool not to as well.
She hates herself, too. She should’ve done more, should’ve been more.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow she can try again. Tomorrow she can wake up and feel better. Tonight, she is going for a walk and clearing her head. Tonight, she is escaping the eyes. Tonight she is alone. Tonight she can breathe. Paws crunch in layers of snow as the she-cat pushes her way out of camp. The river. She needs to get to the river.
Wind whipping against her face is the only indication the tortoiseshell has that she’s running. When did her legs decide to run? She’ll be so tired tomorrow if she’s going for a swim and a run. It’s not smart, but the young cat keeps running. She needs to wear herself out, make her mind shut up but there are pawsteps behind her and she does not know if they are real or not. It hardly matters, though, if they’re real she’s running away. If they’re fake she’s running faster. They might as well be real, though, it wouldn’t make much difference, maybe she’d even have someone’s pelt to claw up if they were real.
No.
No, when did she start thinking like that? It’s jarring and she skids to a stop, kicking up snow around her, panting hard, chest heaving with effort and brows furrowed. Confused. Concerned. Her thoughts do not feel like hers. They’re twisted and violent and angry. She’s never thought of herself as violent or angry. She’d tried so hard not to be. Cats don’t listen to you if you’re not twisted or violent, though. Maybe she is what they made her. Molded into shape like mud on a warm newleaf day, crafted not with the soft pads of paws but with teeth and claws and vitriol and spite. This is not who she was. This is not who she wanted to be. What would her brother think of how she turned out? …What would Scorchedhollow think?
Would he like the cat that she is today? Would he be sad, wherever he is, that she is not the same happy, optimistic and excited for life apprentice she used to be? She does not want to upset him. For all she knows he’s dead. He’s dead and he hasn’t reached out to her. He hates her. He’s… sad with how she is now.
The tears come before she can stop them. Angry and hot and sad and shameful. So, so shameful. Regret is at the forefront of her mind and her paws keep her moving again. She should have turned down the position of deputy. Should have made Gingerstar choose someone else. Maybe he wouldn’t have died. Maybe RiverClan would be in a better place. Everyone liked Gingerstar. They do not like her. She was too young. She’d had almost no experience. Was Gingerstar choosing a cat who had only had her name a few moons any better than herself choosing a newly named warrior as deputy? Was it really any different? Why was there such backlash?
She thinks she sees a cat in front of her and manages to bring herself to a stop just in time. Any longer and she would’ve tumbled straight into the freezing cold river. The river… when had she gotten here? She doesn’t remember hearing the roar of the water, the crashing against stones or the banks. Green eyes glance up through tears. There is no cat there. Was she hallucinating? No… no she couldn’t be, there had been a cat there for sure! They’d warned her of the river mere pawsteps ahead! …hadn’t they?
Moments pass with her looking straight ahead, hardly blinking, trying to search beyond the river for the form of a cat she’s only half sure she really saw. There’s a glimmer of light on the horizon. Is it morning already? Hunting and border patrols will be heading out soon, surely. She should head back. Get back to camp. Pretend to be whole. Pretend to be in control. Start piecing her clan back together, holding them in place with mud and cobwebs.
And then her paw slips out from under her.
She’s surprised at first by the cold, feels it seeping into her veins and soaking through her entirely. She’d fallen into the river… she only realizes that when it begins dragging her along its current. Limbs and tail thrash to regain balance, to keep her head above the water, to fight the current and get back to the shore. She shouldn’t fight the current. She’ll only get more tired. She knows this. She knows this. But panic forgets reason and logic and she’s thrashing, her head going under briefly before she manages to resurface, coughing and gasping and she’s fighting for her footing and her head explodes with pain so suddenly she sees stars. Did she slam into a rock? She doesn’t know. She can’t think.
Claws scrabble to hold onto the river bank, finding purchase in the muddy stones and it takes an incredible effort to pull herself out, hacking and coughing and gasping. Her head throbs. Her lungs sting. She starts shivering violently. Dimly, she registers her tongue grooming the wetness from her pelt in reverse, the way queens keep their kits warm, get their blood moving. She can hardly tell that she’s the one grooming herself. Her mother had never been so kind. The other nursery queens had done such things instead. She doesn’t even know who her mother is. Is she dead? Why didn’t she want her? Was she not good enough even as a kit?
She wants to start weeping again. Where is she? These woods should be familiar, but her head hurts and her eyes are blurry and she has to take gulps of air to feel like she’s breathing. Shaky legs stand against better judgement. She’d much rather lay down forever. She has to get back… where? Get back where? She doesn’t… she doesn’t remember? A frown finds its way onto a scarred face. Why does she not remember where she needs to go? Why are there eyes everywhere she looks? Blurry eyes blinking and staring and… crying. The eyes are crying. Why are they crying? Did she make them sad?
”I’m sorry,” she tells them and her voice feels raw in her throat, but she really does feel sorry for the eyes. She shouldn’t have made them cry. Why did she make them cry? What a horrible person she must be. What sort of monster makes someone cry and doesn’t even remember why? ”I’m sorry.” She repeats. But is she sorry? She thinks she is, but the eyes scare her, too, so maybe she should feel vindicated by their tears. She doesn’t.
She walks in the first direction she sees, trying to chase after the eyes that are crying but they don’t get any closer, constantly out of reach, and oh, ow, her head is killing her. Stumbling ahead, she forgets how to walk, her steps shaky and uneven and she trips and falls several times before she feels she can walk stronger again. The air shifts in scent, now, less fishy and more a wild amalgamation of many different scents, many different claims to territory, cat, dog, bear, fox, coyote, badger, anything and everything, some far more stale than others. Where is she? This isn’t her home? Is it?
The snarl alerts her to another predator before she smells it, and, dizzy, the she-cat spins around just in time to see the white and black and grey of a badger, coming back from it’s night of foraging. Was she on its territory? Where was its den? Her nose doesn’t seem to be working, she doesn’t smell the creature. Is the wind behind her?
Her mind is slow, too slow and she does not react in time when a long claw comes slicing down on her flank. A loud, pained yelp escapes her, blood on the snow beneath her paws and tufts of fur falling with it. She cannot fight this thing. She is too injured. She is too out of it. She doesn’t know if this thing is actually in front of her or not. She wants to rip it to shreds, flay it alive, eat its meat. She can’t. Instead, her mind conjures up an image of her snarling and spitting and hooking claws into the creatures nose, slicing them through before she turns and runs.
Was that her imagination? She can’t tell. She’s already running. The strange smells of the outskirts envelope her, surround her completely. And she is alone. More alone than she’d ever been before. At least she wasn’t truly by herself before. The same cannot be said right now. Her head throbs. Her leg burns and stings. Her pelt is still wet. She’s less running and more limping. There’s blood under her claws. She does not feel alive.
I Always Wanted to Die Clean and Pretty [va]
