All of her hurt, and all Delya wanted to do was push more. Push against the confines of herself, against the confines of Astreraia, against the confines of social construct and norms and the little box inside her brain that she’d forced herself to keep to. There were so many walls up, and they were cracking. They were breaking, rotting away, and she didn’t have the time to put herself back together like that. Time. What a laugh. Delya could take all the time in the world for her own self because she had nothing. A dry laugh in her shaky lungs. Nothing. After all the fight and the try in the world, she’d made no impact, she’d made no friends, and she was another emaciated figure in the grass. If something would come down to eat her, would she fight back? Would she push back against it and revolt? Nope. She’d let them take her.
From a scientific perspective, it was an anxiety attack. The chemical imbalance in her head was getting the best of her—welcome to genetics. Both of her fathers were a nightmare, but Delya had gotten the better side of the issues—Makism’s imbalance as opposed to Tarquin’s heart condition. To tell the dancer she couldn’t run? Well, she wouldn’t have made it this far. What she refused to actually acknowledge was that the very same genetic and chemical imbalance had driven her brother more than a little bit mad. Maybe they all were mad. The Russian dancer allowed the muscle pain to try and win her back over, but it would take its own sweet time. That was the way it always worked, after all. It could be days… it could be days until she felt right again. Every time it happened, it took longer and longer for Delya to be back in her own skull.
The wind wasn’t in her favor, and the dancer wasn’t able to smell Iblis until it was too late. She rolled quickly to her feet, ears flat to her skull as the alpha asks of her condition. Before she can think all the way through, before she can remember who she’s addressing, before she can handle what’s going through her head and process and get things through her mind she’s answering—“I’m fine, Iblis.” The words are a growl, and the second they fall past her lips she withers again. Her head drops further, her ears go limp, and the growl dies in her throat. A shake in her hind legs, and she feels like she’s going to throw up. Haunches hit the soft grass, and she’s thankful that there’s the cushion there to catch her.
“They don’t fucking need me and everything hurts.” The words slip lowly from her jaw, and she can’t look at Iblis. She didn’t mean to snap at him moments before, and she’s still quivering. Anxieties getting the best of her, and all she wants to do is collapse and sob and cry and fight herself from the outside in… and yet she can’t do that either. She was feeling… she was feeling too many things and absolutely nothing, all at once, and it was enough to make her nearly sick. Maybe that’s what she was. Maybe she was sick.
female – 40in – 105lbs – six – jake |