battery acid | p

[val]

dying out under his paws.

it's on his mind again.

nothing new, of course - he felt it first, and its pain was merciful, but still was he drained. murder wasn't real here, under the blue sky, no - nothing but clouds. it didn't count.

i'm realer than you. i need this more than you. i'm the only one deserving of life. i was always better than you. you were nothing, and i'm making you was. not even into the earth, respect isn't for you.

i ripped you apart. it felt good.

and i will always be the right one.

there didn't need to be a justification. these kinds of things are meant to happen, and there's no correct way to go about living and ending lives. he wouldn't play a game of morality, but if he did, he would've won anyway. when the sun rises, it could do so under a fog shroud or burn away the night; did it matter beyond petty preference?

i don't have to argue with you.

(i never said that.)

and you always make it feel that way. you don't need to speak when you make me hold the rose thorn - even if it pierces to the bone.

(you've a knack for making problems out of things that don't exist.)

mouth opened to argue - (oh, poor habit) - snapped shut and scowled. you don't exist. he lashed his thorn-riddled tail, the fluffy fur torn and matted. "pft," he huffed in vexation. he refused to hound himself. shouldn't even talk to himself, but that was an old song already.

the morning was foggy, the still atmosphere chilly. frigid vapor wafted from his nostrils whenever he let the warm air out. old wounds ached. because the clouds were sticking their meddling fingers into places they never belonged, the haze created phantoms blurring before his eyes. bad memories. he tried to blink it aside, and stubbornly the gloom hung.

and he saw her.

a stand-still. creaking bark. he could hear the grass breathing. couldn't hear himself - lungs froze.

(leafpaw. leafpaw. you remember her. say her name. say it. coward. SAY IT.)

insisting. insisting. there's no room. no room for it. dying throes. clawed-out throats. stinging. stinging -

saying sorry.

"leafpaw?" he croaked out.

it was her. it had to be. that silhouette - it was her's, wasn't it? if not larger now, but he knew it. she was right there, and he guessed he was conversing with ghosts again, but he was going down that rockslide once again.

well, of course, he'd dragged her down it all that time back - 12 moons if he counted - and he hadn't even been the one to pull her from the rubble. he'd left them all in the grime and dust.

"leafpaw?"

(is that all they are? debris in your life? wreckage?)

@Kix /