wiscasset culvert

[val]

the underpass of rural wiscasset road. a shallow, russet-clear creek runs through the tunnel. along the slope are medium-sized boulders of assorted colors stacked by the concrete opening of the cuvlvert. the road above has semi-rusted guardrails. enough trees provide adequate shade during the day.

(closed.)

[val]

"if you don't want me, set me free,"

---

being alive hurts. he'd accepted that a long time ago.

his heart's lost rhythm. he doesn't know how to describe it, but he knows it has. maybe it's always been like that, and not having a heartbeat for moons made him forget it. its pulse is feathery and faint, fluttering and fragile.


he didn't just have to talk his way back to life. he had to crawl and claw his way out of the grave: six feet deep in a dumpster in a body that hasn't rotted away, or had, but those lucky stars sewed it back together.


sleep is hard to wake up from. if he keeps his eyes closed, will they stay forever? not yet, he says, as he wrenches himself back to his paws. not yet, he says, as he pushes past the pain. not yet, he says, as he darts across the street, and under fences, and out of the reach of snapping hounds' jaws. not yet.


he doesn't know the way back, but he'll find out. his paws guide him along an unseen path.


how does it feel to be alive?


cicadas rattle their wings together in a swelling cacophony, imitating the rise and fall of the ocean tides. cerulean skies open broad arms and gather cottony clouds together, whisking them into wisps of dandelion fuzz caught spiderwebs trailing across the bright, blue expanse.

he'd missed the deepest part of summer. the grass, once a vivid, vibrant, dewy green, is sunbleached now. it dries out under the searing summer sun, shriveling until the next soaking storm that crashes into the atmosphere.

early, eager trees yellow already. crisp leaves of gold rustle gently in the soft breezes and caress his fur with the earthy scent of a coming autumn.

fences stand tall, some spokes and posts broken by strong, determined storms. their stain is worn down to the raw wood underneath, scratched up by a manner of pests and pets throughout the years. those fences stand poor guard over equally poor yards, where the grass is dead and the bushes scraggly. at the bottom of small knolls is a mess of a mire made by drainage pipes spewing filth into the man-made valley.

he skirts the edges of these desolate lands, weaving around small holes dug by dogs and forgotten twoleg playthings.

though his involuntary stay (or incarceration, if you asked him) was spent indoors, he minds less now the horrors of the Twolegplace. hounds he can ignore. monsters he pays no attention. grubby, pelt-less, idiotic, and shrill twolegs...

maybe not so much.

he makes it a habit to hide away from them in particular, not keen on getting snatched again.


when the sun begins to slip below the horizon, the sky tinges red and pink and orange. the clouds soak up the colors, blotting out the hard edges until everything runs together as pleasantly as a salmon's underbelly, or perhaps the tip of a red-winged blackbird's shoulder.

he understands now that the sun loves everything under it, and cannot help but paint its subjects in the best colors it can provide, or at least show the lesser beings its most impressive masterpiece of the night before it wishes them farewell.


what do you figure you are, anymore?

you're not ThunderClan. nor any of the other clans. you're no kittypet.

so you're a loner.

i'm not lonely.

but you are alone.


at times he becomes single-minded like the hound that runs at his heels.

he's got one last purpose that is arguably redeemable for the hopeless - chases after it: paws burnt on pavement and claws cracked down to the quick.


bitter, tepid, tangy residue crawls over his tongue like a million ants. the greens he eats does nothing to wash away the memory of a tart berry popping between his canines.


what am i, if not one glorified walking mistake?

what's the point in self-pity.

two of three.


sometimes death still grips his heart.

rest finds him in a soggy tunnel.

---

"exactly whom i'm supposed to be?"

[ closed ]

[val]

"if you don't want me, set me free,"

---

clouds so soft, like a mother's caress, floated so gently. bolls of cotton rival them the way a wounded rabbit rivals a falcon - not at all. there is ground between the rose pink and molten gold colors cast by the sun, and he springs among the clouds from it. he jumps, twists, leaps - but he's always drawn back down, slow, like a reminder. you do not belong here.

he squeezed his eyes shut and choked on his words - (his spilling blood?) - "where are you?" he called out anxiously, bright eyes wide, a sheen of starry film covering them. the clouds stir at his paws, wisps of blue wafting up where he stepped. it was silent, in a detached way. "hello?" he said, quiet. it echoed, cradled on vapor.

"where are you? i need you right now."

- right now, right now, right now...

"hello?"

-lo? -lo? -lo?

the sunlight grew, branching out like a confident oak tree, growing strong. broad leaves of light shrouded everything soft and refracted in the clouds to spill a dizzy hue of violent red before his eyes, bleeding, bleeding.

copper tang rose. musky scent of foxes. fear. kicked up dirt. wailing - who's wailing??

hello? hello? hello? hello? hello? hello?

i'm right here.

bright. bright. too bright. everywhere.


he jerks awake, clawing at the muddy dirt beneath his paws. grasps desperately at it, shudders off the nightmare from his pelt like it were nothing more than an irritating tick. splays his claws further, and shoves his claws deep into the earth. he's catching his breath, his jackrabbit heart, his sanity. hold it. hold it now, hold it close.

blood trickles not from the stream. only rusty water and little minnows.

it's quiet.

too quiet.

get up. get UP. GET UP.

up. heavy. why-? ...not right... hello? hello? hello? hello? hello?

shut up.

blood. not. legs - numb - empty. down. down. breathe. dark in eyes. faint.


he jerks awake, paws twitching in the small stream. he gingerly lifts them from the surface and settles them by his side with a weary sigh. dull eyes roam the dark tunnel with a bleariness he can't blink away. he swallows dryly and slowly pushes his feet under his body. a pause allows for the spinning to settle before he shakily stands.

it's probably nothing.

and off he goes.

i have places to be.

where? where? where? where? where? where? where? where? where? where? where? where?

---

"exactly whom i'm supposed to be?"

[ closed ]