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Posted on August 22, 2013 at 11:57:09 PM by Monty
I was young enough to be his daughter, my age just exactly half of his own, but neither of us seemed to care too much about the age gap between us as I stood still and let him come up to me. He came very close but I didn't flinch. I had that same emotionless look in my eyes that I had seen in a dead fish washed to the shore just a few days ago. I had practiced the look often enough to know it when I felt it; I was the doll on the factory line in which the air brush ran out of paint. Somehow I managed to escape my 'finishing touches' and get dressed in the same clothes as everyone else only then to be shipped out to the supplier.
Obsolete models (that is what they called things like us) were not necessarily bad models, but neither were they good enough for the target audience, most girls wanted to feel beautiful -- not plain. So when the supplier sorted out his shipment he picked only the finest ones to go to selected retailers he left me in a pile with the rest of the defects to be shipped off to cheaper, less fortunate places; treating me as if I were a bootleg from China that he didn't want any part of even if I was made by the same machines and the same materials as all the rest.
Someone like me ends up in the Goodwill in only a matter of months. Turned into pieces rather than kept whole, stuffed into a clear plastic bag along with other chopped up barbies and sold alongside crafts on a wall cloitered with other unwanted mentionables. $3.99, that would be my price, surrounded by $4.99's and $2.99's, never anything more and certainly nothing lest. Thrift was thrift afterall. Everything that came to this wall was in pieces. The dolls around me -- they too were in pieces. Little bits of horses, half dried out markers, chewed up crayons, mangled baby doll heads, glues with mysterious lables, tea stained greeting cards that someone did not want. There was a place for us in this world – and it wasn't where the rich and the famous went...but neither were we the ones they stepped on to get so high up in the first place.
No, those were loiterers and tourists.
Dexter was a loiterer – an angry one no doubt, but a loiterer none the less with how he paced and grunted around in the Falls. At first she repelled him because she didn't want to deal with whatever it is that had taken his mind over – because she wasn't interested in soothing anyone's wounds nor was she interested in crooning for affection either. She had made the mistake, however, of regarding how lovely his coat looked, but at that particular time the compliment was lost between us as the girl shrewed up on him when he stood too close for too long.
“You don't need to stand so close.” She firmly stated, head jerking back to keep the leather away from him. It was hers and hers alone. Whether she had no place on the Islands to actually deny the man what he wanted, she would test herself to see what she could get away with. Her mother would be very disappointed in her daughter right now if she were alive to see it.
Gravestones turned over inside her mind, somewhere in the dark place where those kinds of memories went to be forgotten. Ah-hah! Alacran thought then, perhaps her mother was rolling over in her grave from this child's poor behaviour.
When she moved away Dexter moved with her, his teeth taking up the other end of the halter before giving it a tug. It popped from her teeth with a slick wet sound, the chewed on piece slapping wetly against his skin. “You can't have that – it is mine.” Alacran state matter-of-factly, the cream coloured paso fino fidgited for a moment, attempting patience with him, but lost the battle of self discipline and was soon rearing up to try and reach the leather that he dangled just out of her reach.
“Give it back!” She huffed, rearing up and gently pushing her hooves onto his shoulder, merely standing against him without honestly trying to hurt him, a delicate foreleg reached higher up now, batting softly at the dangling ends with her hoof. If she could see herself she would compare herself to a cat pawing curiously at a dangling string. “You shouldn't take things that don't belong to you – that is how you get killed in your sleep at night, you know.”
Because this is entirely true.
And it wouldn't be the first time she's killed to get back what was hers.
Something about the tone of her voice; the Knowing, the Foretelling of his future – the Wisdom behind such strange words that no little girl should be able to possess – that no horse should possess, period. Those pale wintergreen eyes studied his face for a long time, understanding that Dexter (in the full cusp of his Mood of Moods) would probably not give it back to her...
--And would test her entirely.
--And tease her endlessly.
--And risk his personal well-being about everything just to see what she could do.
“I'll follow you if you don't give it back – You won't like me much if I have to follow you. Why are you so angry? You'll never make friends acting this way with anyone – I would know, I do it all the time.” She huffed then, sliding off his shoulder gently. She was so lightweight by comparison that she didn't even leave a mark in the fur to mark her movement against him.
Quietly her eyes glanced away from him as they caught the glittering wings of a cicada zipping around over the tops of the rocks.
“I'll follow you.” She said, and was entirely creepy about it with the leering look she gave him once again, and then...
“You have to sleep sometime. So give it back!” She leapt for it now in an attempt to take it back for herself.
Ooc: Feel free to powerplay a little here, he can shove her, bite her, draw blood if he wishes...he can even run away with it if he wishes to...or he can be a total asshole and throw it in the river so she can't fetch it.
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