Crushed Berries
Disclaimer: Warriors isn't mine, thank goodness...
Strangely, it feels like I haven't written anything in forever, I dunno... Anyway, it's friday and the start of a long weekend for me, so I figured I'd write a little drabble to get my writer's brain working.
This took ten, fifteen minutes, and I'm not sure how long for the poem. I wrote it lying on my back in my yard yesterday, if that helps.
The pain is unbearable.
Every movement I make triggers it, each wave of agony more excruciating than the last, if possible. I don't know how I'm surviving; shouldn't I be dead by now? I'm not sure. For all of my short life I've been more or less happy, content to play and squabble with my brother and sister in the confines of the nursery, the only home I've ever known.
To cliff you're hanging in your head,
With full knowledge that, with one slip, you're dead.
The stress and the angst add on to your weight,
Try as you might to hang on, it's too late.
My mother told me that it wasn't always her home, though. She explained to us that, once upon a time, she lived in a barn, a place far away on the other side of a great shining pool of water. She mentioned that the four us might return, one day, go back to meet our father and smell the wonderful aroma of hay and scuffle on the strangely smooth wood ground. I love it here in the forest, with the swaying trees and blue sky overhead while the delicious scent of prey lingers on the breeze, but, still, I've always kind of wanted to go see the barn, just to visit.
Now, I don't think I ever will.
Like a rock you plummet, earthbound and fast,
Madly you twist, wondr'ing how long you'll last.
There's nothing around you; it's black as night,
Cold and barren, its blankness gives a fright.
Will I die? Most likely. I'm all alone, and night is coming, slowly but surely. Darkness is approaching. So is death.
Your hands flail about for something to grip,
There's nothing, nothing; it's through air you whip.
Wind rushes past you, battering your face,
You leave naught behind, not even a trace.
Hesitantly, I twist my neck to get a good look, both trying and failing to ignore the newborn stabs of pain that that pierce through me. I cringe as I catch sight of my tail; it's tightly twined through glittering silver tendrils of something hard, and is horribly mangled and torn. Mixtures of blood and other liquids leak out of multiple gashes ripped throughout the cream fur, and my tail in general is kinked in ways that I know are not normal and never will be.
Just gazing at the injury makes me feel sick. Why did this happen to me? I'm just a kit; I've hardly lived, barely had a chance to see the world. Why couldn't I just have stayed in the nursery, safe and sound with my mother and siblings? It's not fair, not fair at all...
It's a bottomless pit, it seems to be,
There's no beings, nor birds; no grass, nor trees.
When will they end, these depths of affliction?
You wish it was a book, one of fiction.
The oozing blood stings my nose, and my stomach convulses. I struggle to keep it in, but can't. I wail, squeak pitifully like the kit I am, not yet something of any worth, not a being anycat would waste time coming after. Discardable, useless, equal to rotting crowfood.
Like crashing through ocean, water goes on,
Begging for mercy, begging to be gone.
Down, down, to the very floor of the sea,
Clinging to hope that, one day, you'll be free.
Gasping a little, I pause for a heartbeat, trying to listen around the throbbing of my head to judge if anyone is coming for me. It's a stupid decision; I hear nothing, nothing but the soft whisper of wind in the undergrowth that surrounds me. I crumble miserably, resuming my deathly lament.
...Well, that turned out rather angsty; I didn't expect that. Odd. Oh, and I realize the poem and narrative don't really work together...ah, well. Anyway, as usual, please send me a review
--Annie