soulshattering | FLIGHT PATHS

Halvir hated using the bath house. The water in the tub made his reflection stare back at him, hard and crisp like a slap in the face. Halvir hated it.

He hated the flame in the hole of his missing eye, and how it constantly burned, never giving him peace even in sleep. It burned in the darkness, it hissed and evaporated his tears. He hated that it made it hard for people to come close to him, because while the flame did not harm him, it was still hot to anyone else. He hated the fact that his eye was gone, how it had melted out of his skull and leaving him without depth perception. He even hated the fact that that it did not burn him, because it told him just how corrupted his body truly was.

He hated the stump of his ear, the useless piece of flesh that had a hint of a sad, lone tip like the ear of a half-elf, but thick and unmoving. He hated the way it made him lopsided, and he hated his good ear for reminding him of the ear he did not have. He hated the hole going into his head, even if it had saved him from deafness. It made him feel like there was a void open into his brain; even more so than the hole in his face.

He hated his skin. He hated how dark it had become for a boy that used to be pale, how the veins underneath glowed slightly green in the places were you could see it - and how much brighter it became when he used his magic. It was like having a disease underneath, sick and disgusting like his veins were full of rot and decay. His blood was tainted, foul.

He hated his horns, and how they curved back over his head. They grew from his skull rather than his forehead, like some real warlocks carried theirs. He hated that he could not hide them well, sticking out as they did. He hated how much they reminded him of the demons, the torture and the abuse, and how close he was to becoming just like them. He hated that he could not file them down, snap them off, because they were sensitive and much more than just dead bone on his head.

He hated the hidden wings on his back. He hated how they reminded him of the fel elves that would demand him to feed from the demons, fueling addiction and corruption in every way. At the same time he hated how small they were, how pathetic they seemed as they clung to his back, not much larger than chicken wings and strangely, unevenly feathered. He hated how they made it hard to sleep on his back, and how they sometimes molted and made him nearly mad with how they itched. He hated that he could move them, control them like new appendages, how they were real, not just for show like feathered tumors.

Above all, he hated his scars. He hated how the burns disfigured him, how the knotted, uneven skin warped his features into horror. He hated how they reached almost his entire side, and how badly they had healed thanks to his captivity. Halvir hated the edges of the burns, because the damage was thinner there, the skin raw and aching even today. He hated how clothes that he was not used to annoyed it, and how the slightest touch to them left lingering fizzles in the damaged nerves. He hated the burns on his side, because the skin was dead there, the scars deep enough to reach flesh, killing everything in their path and leaving nothing but numbness in their wake. He could not feel touches to his arm, couldn't sense the cloth of his robe over his hips.

He hated the other scars, too. His healthy skin was littered with them, scrapes and cuts and bites that did not heal well, that left raised, pale welts in their wake. he hated the way they destroyed the parts of him that he might have felt good about, and how they reminded him of horror. He hated the way the scars on his wrists and ankles reminded him of chains and manacles, the way the scars on his back made him wince like the whip of a succubus was striking him once more. He hated the teethmarks buried in his flesh, every tooth easily counted. He hated the scars at his pelvis and inner thighs, because they spoke of horrors that he did not remember; repressed to save a young mind from madness.

He hated almost everything about himself. The slight point to his canines, they fingernails that were bitten down to the flesh, the lone, pathetic eye brow bent in a permanent worried look. He hated his thin arms and legs, the sharp curve of his hips, the jagged ribs that were all caused by malnutrition during his growing years. He hated that he probably would never be taller than he was.

He hated everything.

...but no, that wasn't completely true. There was something that was dear to the boy. Halvir loved his hair. He loved how long it was, how smooth it could be while falling over his back. He loved his gently it rested against his scars, and how it didn't hurt him like so much else would. He loved how he could comb and style if in such a way that it hid the part of his head that no longer had any hair thanks to the fire. He loved how he could hide himself behind it and feel safe, guarded.

Touching the water in the tub, it sent ripples that destroyed his reflection. He would wash, because he wanted to shampoo that hair, to clean it out and feel happy about the one little thing about himself that he could be proud of, the one thing that made him feel like and elf and not a monster.

...and these days, he wanted to care for it because it was as dark as the hair of the most important person in his world. His family.