They Call Me Unwanted

[.cay]

every time you breathe

[] unwanted []

gasp when you're dying

[] my true name []

suicide on a marble floor

[] three full season changes []

a broken sirens call

[] horse []

this wall is crumbling

[] palomino []

having no will left

[] arabian []

born into hatred

[] mare []

killing as we fall

[] light []

masquerading an identity

[] My body crumbles beneath me when I walk. Too small to carry the burden placed on my shoulders. You could call it a burden, but you'd be lying, maybe, as I only see it as a blessing through pale brown glasses.

Flyaway hairs shroud my neck, as placating as the devil's jaw, yet as pale as the rest of me. My bangs are just the same, and hang around my face, encloaking me from the tireless stares of the world.

Whoever said my body was blessed to be formed like that of my parents? Their lingeage so pure and fine, untainted by the world as evil scoured the land. Those lines aren't near the truth, or maybe they are. Nearer than you would think, as my parents shared a meal with that evil, themselves. My body is curved like theirs, much to my distaste. I don't want their broken souls tainting my own.

Oops, too late. It seems that as I stumble along with my too-long legs, I can't un-arch my neck from their prideful glare. My dished profile can't turn away from their burning words. Even as I try and run from their abuse, I can't hold down my banner as it flies along behind me.

They striked me, ivory hooves dancing across my skin, their pale daggers unbearably close to my own colourless blades. Yet as they strike me, their cold gaze is far from my emotionless one. They can't discern any emotion from the eyes under an alabaster marking. It's unnerving, coming from one with a mask to hide all.

Masks are helpful, so I'm glad there's one covering my face, it's colour quite similar to the erratic shape on my forehead. Other than those two, my body has no biological marks. But the rest of my skin is torn and scarred in many places. Six months is the longst time; with all of my brusies still lingering and scars that will never fade, it's a wonder I'm still alive.

But emaciation, fear and the drive for survival takes its toll on anyone. Who would want a skinny little boy like me? Perhaps my name isn't all that thoughtless... Even my future doesn't look promising, my knock-kneed state almost ensuring problems in the future. If leg problems would be my worst in the times to come.

Maybe I wouldn't make it that far, maybe my small, bruised, cut, scarred, skinny, arabian, pally bodice wouldn't carry me past a year. []

entry for my death in the devils handbook

[] My quiet demeanor would most likely be charming in anyone else but me. As a foal I was stripped of my purity, my pride, my will to live as someone with freedoms and the ability to smile. You could say that I'm silent, reclusive, unresponsive, "that poor child". But all I can think is how lucky I am. How lucky I am, yet I still can't break away from my past. So I'm silent.

When I talk, my voice barely carries. All that you can hear is a pain that hasn't healed, a fear that hasn't faded, a knowledge that shouldn't be placed on anything less than dead. My rough and cracked melody sounds more like a funeral march, voice overflowing with the tears I don't dare show from behind my mask. So in other words, my rare voice tears at anyones' heart.

And even my actions, sporadic as they may seem for a colt of my age, tell of my never leaving reactions. I fear for lashing, whipping, cutting, bleeding, harsh words, harsh blows. I seek out other horses comany; I crave it. But I can't bring myself to speak with anyone, for fear of their interpretation of me. I'm still afraid of words that would cut me. Basically, I'm insecure.

Growing up like I did, if you could call it growing up, left me with slight dimensia. Who knows what others could be thinking of me? Could be thinking of doing to me? I'm safer alone, yet I want to once again lay beside a body with heat. A body with breath still flowing. I guess, even if they scar me, beat me, cut me, maybe I can endure just for my sake. I could be selfish enough to sacrifice my well being for just another second beside something that would pull me from my world of cold and harshness. Really, all I'm saying is I'd love the company.

I want to be polite, and run away from the past I was cursed with. So when I speak with someone, I speak with all of the courtesy I can muster up, and try to answer questions without flinching away or questioning horses' motives. I try and see both sides of something, and then judge to the best of my ability, which side is right for me, and which side is not. Actually, it's like I'm courteous instead of rude. []

these ropes that are binding me

[] [month one] The moment they looked at me, I could see it in their eyes. All of the cruel, cold, unbaised hatred that shined the moment they set their gaze upon me. It's a gaze that no foal should have to understand in their first day of life. No foal should have to hear the disproving grunts, the mocking snorts, the snarl of disappointment that twisted like a child who won the small prize instead of the big one. No foal should have to hear that from their parents, and their family around them.

"Unwanted, that's what you are." One would say, staring down at me with fury seeping from his pores.

"You mean, Unwanted, that's who you are." My mother hissed, hastily standing up and stumbling over to where my father stood, glaring down at me.

I struggled to understand those hurtful words and gazes, and I could barely comprehend them, in all of my minutes of life. And in the minutes that followed, I learned of a hate so strong; a hate based merely on the colour I was cloaked with.

I would stare at my parents, and their sleek black paint, and wonder why my clothes were so different from theirs. Appparently that's why they hated me. They bred together the most promising two young horses, and they got this misfit, this long, knock-kneed boy that was as gold as the rising sun.

Who was to say they didn't have a reason to do what they did to me? From their state of minds, they could have killed me at any point; in fact, I was happy they lashed out at me, with words and teeth, also. It meant that they acknowledged me, and the feel of their warmth close to me was like stepping from winter to summer, because from the moment I was born, I hadn't felt warmth.

Yes, so when they hit me, I could feel the heat of their hatred, yet instead of hurting me, I'd say it healed a little. Because when they hit me, they didn't strike to kill. That meant, deep, deep down, they acknowledged that I was one of theirs, and that they couldn't kill me, no matter my shape or form.

But that didn't mean they couldn't hate me.

[month two] As I grew, my state of being grew thin. They wouldn't let me eat as much as the inky-black colts that stared down deeply curved noses at me. I would have merely a sip from the stream, instead of the warm, nourishing milk my mother should have given me.

My mother refused to let me near her. "My little Unwanted, who would want you near? You are such a disappointment, that I would kill you if you came within a metre," she would say, before abruptly trotting away from me to gaze longingly over the other monthlings that were "pure beauties" in all of their finity.

And so I grew weaker than I already had been, and the beatings came worse. My father would snarl every time he saw me, not hesitating to strike out, without making it seem like an accident, a slip of hoof. No one else said, or did, anything to stop him. They were glad, at least, someone was beating the Unwanted.

Yet through it all, I managed to keep standing. I learned to live without speaking, to move without walking, to live without breathing. I had to be careful, I had to be composed. I wasn't able to frolic, so I chose to stand by the stallions of the herd; no one wanted me near the mares or the other foals.

The stallions kept me in check, kept me conformed and silent, and if I slipped up, say, let my gaze follow a stray bird across the field, they would let me know. And I wouldn't lift my eyes up from the ground again, only looking at those when I was told to. No one wanted to meet these Unwanted eyes of mine.

[month three] What little optimism I had left was starting to fade with every blow they dealt upon me. Even as I slunk away to my little clearing to clean my wounds, I could feel the blood from nights before still coursing from my skin. This wasn't a good place for me to be. They would keep beating me until the day I died, and who knows when that would be?

A stranger came in my time of darkness. She flitted among the herd like a whisper of air, not quite dark enough to be considered as a permanent resident. She never strayed near me, not wanting to come near the broken and bleeding form that I was. I made no attempt to go near her; who knows what she was like beneath the pure demeanor?

In a little bit she left, and the herd once again went back to normal. The few days she had stayed with us were a refuge for me; no one had any attention to spare towards me during those hours, good or bad.

I had taken the time to eat and drink, and the freedom almost gave me a hope that everything would get warmer.

And when she left, I got caught, and I couldn't stand for the next two weeks. "That food is not for the Unwanted, boy!" They snarled as they ganged up on me. I had no resolve left to run or try and turn their hearts. I just stood still and took it. I had no more fight, and even less hope.

[month four] When I could finally walk again, I was set to duties. I carried them out without a thought, fearing that if I even strayed from the duty in my line of thought, they would come and beat me for it. I was scared.

The duties became increasingly hard as I grew up, getting a little taller and a bit stronger, for all I was emaciated. I began to feel the physical labour take its toll on my body, and the strain was almost worse than the beatings I got if I didn't complete the jobs before a set amount of time.

These days, they would do anything just to hurt me. And my fading energy was just another reason for them.

It was after an exhausting duty, and a particularily strong beating, that a thought began to flicker through my mind.

This was unusual, because lately I hadn't thought much of anything but what was seen to be done, and this thought in particular was a bit out of reach. If this thought was even pondered on, I knew that they would hit me within an inch of death. So I rejected the thought and never let it come up again.

I followed through with my duties, doing things that would be challenging for someone four times my age, and I did them without speaking, complaining, and challenging. And for a little bit, I was allowed to heal, and only do my job.

Perhaps the horizen was brightening.

[month five] The time had come. Even in my five month old body, I knew that this had to end. I needed to get away. I should have heeded my thoughts and surrendered to them a long time ago. It was almost too late.

In the dead of night, I fled. No longer could I've taken the abuse; my body just couldn't survive. And now I knew, too, that there was a need for me to survive. Because, even though I wasn't of the desired colour, I was still the son of the two most prominent horses in our age.

So naturally, fleeing was simple for me. The speed installed in my knock-kneed legs was faster than I could've dreamed up; I was able to run! This was the first time I'd been able to run, out of my duties! It was like gliding on air. But I could feel my broken form slowing down; with my health I couldn't keep this speed up for long. So I'd slowed, resigning to keeping a steady pace and running throughout the whole night. It kind of worked for me.

I kept running in the nights for as long as I could remember. Eating and resting in the day, I felt my body slowly regenerate, and I felt more complete than I had in my whole life. I slowly gained a little weight.

And then I made it to these lands, peering over from the front of a dark horizen to the lands that danced in blue moonlight. I watched wolves and horses alike live out their lives from a high ridge for a few days. Things looked like a fairy tale, I could hardly believe that equine could be so gentle and kind.

It was a week before I decided to enter those lands, the ones I find myself treading now. No longer was I bleeding, but I was still broken. These scars would forever imperfect me, and I could only hope to find someone who wouldn't hurt me. And if I wasn't that fortunate, at least find someone who wouldn't hurt me too badly. []

and this magic

[] I pressed on, my faltering pillars tattooing the soft ground beneath me.

The weather insinuated the coming of Fall, yet I couldn't be sure. What reason had the flora to change in such a dramatic way? Surely they would rather be the vibrant, promishing shade of green than the bloody, ominous tint of blood? Well, that was their choice, and yet I comended them.

Their changing cloak gave me extra cover, the golds and browns and irony reds of the undergrowth collecting and blending into my skin, which was a paler gold than the trees themselves, even though I could tell they were dying.

My steps were silent as I flowed through the diseased place, my stomach turning with every pallid scent that was drawn my way. How could these animals bear to live in such a place? I could smell blood, and the overwhelming scent of ladies. I don't want to be here, I think hurriedly, charging into a gallop to break free of the bloodlusted forest.

I couldn't see any of the horses I had visioned from my perch a week ago. I would've been sure that the place was simply crawling with them.

The cold breath of Winter played on the edge of my senses; made me shiver and push myself harder. What was I looking for? A horse to follow and keep close to? Someone to keep me warm and to look after me kindly? To regard me not as something that came into this world wrongly, but to see as something that was to be treasured and kept close?

That wouldn't happen. Horses weren't like that.

I was tempted to scream; to draw them to me by force instead of by fate. But this was my responsibility. I was beginning to resent my choice to leave the herd which sheltered me. But perhaps, I muse, the effect of me leaving has given them the upper hand. No longer do they have Unwanted with them, and maybe they can be happier without me there.

I nodded solemnly as I twisted my way down the rocky path, leaving the desolate and darkened lands behind me. The forest had lceared to prove a wondering valley, and I blink for a second, smelling the warm and comforting scent of foals and pups alike. An adult scent danced with me occaisionally, but mostly it was young here.

How strange.

I leapt forward, balancing on another ledge precariously before making my way down towards the others. Perhaps they would permit me to den with them, and tag along silently. Why was this gathering of youngsters so vivid?

The scent on depression and pessimism washed over me, leaving a dull sense of nausea.

Oh. They were not here of choice, I deduce, stepping forward from the cover of trees to meet curious stares. They were here because they had no one else to be with.

It felt like home. []