So, this is me; again. I must apologise for my absence. I was kidnapped away to my Grandmother's house for a week, whereupon I performed a miraculous escape and came home, only to fight an epic battle with my little brother over 'fair computer time'. O-o Needless to say; I won, and here I am - with a typed up oneshot - one of many to come, because I was trapped in a car with my family for ELEVEN HOURS. Yes, I was almost arrested for quadruple-homicide, but I scraped through. All I could do was sit there and try to get all my ideas down, while driving on a very bumpy highway.
Short version: I was popping off ideas like a pop-corn machine, and here is one of them.
Enjoy.
She had long ago stopped giving them names.
She didn't even give them code names, like 'pebble-skin' or 'cat-paw'.
It personified them.
It brought them closer to reality.
It hurt.
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The long white room was filled with long silver shelves. There was a large gap between the shelves, to allow for a size: large. Just in case. She was in a size: medium. It was far too small (hurt). Did they forget about the wings sticking out of her back? No. No, no, no. They would never do that. If that ever happened, her size: medium would be given to something else. Something else would look out of the bars and see the rows and rows of sizes. The rows and rows of somethings (hurt).
There was one that she did keep, in her own way (hurt). He, or she thought it was a He, was directly across from her. Size: small, size: large, size: medium up from the clean white floor, and many, many sizes from the door to the next long white room. He had wings like her, but they were like the floor, and the walls at night, and hers like the floor, and the walls during the day. Hers were worse than his, she thought. Hers were like the lights before the pain (hurt), before the shiny metal sticks slid into her, and his were like the comforting darkness which followed – if the stick-holders let it.
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She chose a very simple code name. Better than a name.
It fit him. He seemed a simple something. Not useless, like pebble skin had been (hurt), but she always knew what he would do. He would fight them. He punched, and he kicked, and he sometimes even head-butted them. But most of all, he bit them.
'Teeth' was hardly a good code name. It didn't fit with the anger in his eyes. She saw that anger when he looked up from his knees. She never turned around to face the back of her size: medium. It was best to see the number of stick-holders or bleeders (hurt) when they came through the far-away door. He never did either.
Every human, every stick-holder, even the bleeders had teeth. She needed something to match the anger in his night-eyes.
Fang.
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Only animals had fangs.
She personified him.
She thought about it.
Fang (calm).
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