Nothing is ever certain (Part 1)

Just as the rain continues to drench my new reality with an ocean of neon tears…her anguish summons a flood of tangled, complex emotions. The sheer on-look of her visible suffering creates double...nay...thrice the turmoil; rather the invading presence return to resume pillaging my doctrine of how a logical world should function, or mayhaps ravage this flesh until the soul was forced from the harbor within it. Her unnecessary, unwarranted misery begs for comfort; I yearn to stretch out and convey my words without using our faultable noise. Embrace her suffering until the darkness fled from it -- until her heart could lighten and those unseen, festering wounds could at last find their healing If she’d only let me... Remorse isn’t worthy of this beautiful soul… There is one aspect to her admittance that is sorely inaccurate; one that I refuse to leave alone; the misguided theory wouldn't pass without correction, “you?” there was nothing of skepticism, or mockery – rather, my tone becomes quiet. Brows arch, creating new pathways for those driblets of water to curl down my ashen snout, “seal his fate?” How/why she (or someone else) implanted the fault of those unfortunate circumstances is beyond my understanding. However...they would cleaved from this soul. Today.  Not one single, skinny hair would be left behind to stew amidst the conflict. “Nay, child.” This crown sways, casting an arch of droplets, “I know him,” it faintly crosses the back of my mind that, she had no reason to believe me, the counterargument follows at heel, she didn’t have reason to doubt either. My head inclines -gesturing to the collar she lurched to avoid, as if the metal itself would come alive and scald her misery- “and the truth of his story.” Definitively, “you caused no harm.” That previously immobile forelimb rises from the squishy mess below us. The tendrils of smog retreat – possibly losing interest, or choosing to wait until our conversation has grown tiresome. Pinions of ivory and gold resettle, managing (with effort) to curl loosely against my waist; sadly, their presence still feels entirely alien to me… Advancement comes slowly, purposeful – saturated ears rotate ahead. I pause (still comfortably apart,) squishing into the unturned sewage, “if he did live,” thoughtful knots cinch the folds in my throat and stomach; they glow warmly, like the first touch of sunlight…but are tight and hard, like iron, “and found you. What do you think he would say?”

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