Little Serpent

[ry0un0suke]

Several pages are missing save for one in the very beginning of a little journal with a scent of mountains and ink.

Late Autumn 1747 
He didn't want to go to the swamps with me so I went alone. Though after it was all said and done, he got mad at me. For why, exactly? I never understood why he did. It is not an act of care, should anyone have cared, they would have went with me, no? Regardless, my time there was fruitful, though also quite painful. Here's what I learned while alone:
  

Mushrooms:

Don't eat the blue ones. I couldn't move and I couldn't stop vomiting.

Some made me itchy.

My hands won't turn back to a normal color.

Some made it hard to see.

The list cuts short, pages torn and torn, the next year is different from the last, six years different.

 
Early Winter 1753
Why I've returned to this journal is beyond me. I hate everything I wrote and all my notes. I know what they do to me, what snakes do, what plants do, what mushrooms do. I ate them all, touched them all, let them bite me. Nothing more needs to be written, yet I still write. But that news is old but parts of me wish to look back to the past and stare at it. Every outburst, every punch and scream made to deter others. Trust no one, I've been told since I could remember. Friends and beyond drive a knife into my back. Never did I want them and for not wanting them, I'm ridiculed, for having them I am. For wanting and needing I'm labeled things, called names. Though, names are names, I've called others worse. While air, some air can be putrid.
 
Is this supposed to make me feel bad? Maybe I should write things that invoke the opposite.
 
I like snakes. Green is a nice color. My archery will be perfected. I don't eat any sweets. There are those in my life who would truly rather be without. When given the chance to forget them all, I would take it in a heartbeat. I've wondered what it would be like had I not allowed for myself to be torn and for others to invade. Though, in due time it will be returned in tenfold. Regret it all, every action and word and syllable. I am no after thought, no second.
 
Never again will I give.
Never again will I be someone's number two.
 
The feel of a dagger at my back is one I've grown used to and maybe, in some world, that's rather sad. It aches, it hurts. I'm disappointed in myself and in those who rose that blade- I could trust them, but my trust my misplaced. Goodbyes have been said to spare me of any further wounds. Princesses belong in towers, protected by Knights as Dragons come for them. There is no role for me there, no place I belong so I will burrow where I do.
 
Maybe while I'm there I'll write more.
Snake bite hurts, though there is something far worse.

[ry0un0suke]

Late Winter 1754

Tell me, I would love to know- Is every thought one of agony? When you sit down and truly ponder it all, you're alone? Can you feel that severe and line across your neck? It's faint, so faint it's as thought it is not present but present it is. I've taken blades, scissors into hands that do not hold and cut them all off. It's a move that should have been played more fervently in a banal concept that has brought me nothing but loathe. There are roles in life we play, pieces in the puzzling idea of humanity that I've both separated from and also been ripped away from. Can I say, truthfully, that I don't miss the warmth? The laughter? The late night chitter-chatter? Petty squabbles? An idea of something... more and beyond what is my now and present? 
 
No.
 
Applying costume to behavior and nature into a tale where I had no place. The role of Knight had been taken, Princess, Dragon. What remained for me? I put makeup onto my face, a forced attitude that became natural in order to survive in a story not my own. Such was a tale of a Knight and a Princess and I will never be looked at in that manner. No matter how I make myself appear, the attempts made to join this tale as a role within the background but...
 
I could never be content with something like that.
 
Look at me.
Come to me.
There is makeup upon my face, color lined upon my lips so words have a better appeal, flush on pale cheeks so I'm gazed upon but no effort put forth truly matter. 

I am not royalty.
 
When put outside I think it's safe to say that I'm more than contempt to no longer being a part of a strung narrative not for me. So, a blade slid along every single one of their throat. In a sense, it's in preparation for what is yet to be, what is to come. Repulsive- I will show them it. Possessive- They'll see it. Obsessive- It'll be felt from miles. Ugly- Even with lips coated in an alluring color. Though... it matters naught anymore. Where I am...
 
Rivals all that I could have been should I have stooped to that tale they write. 
 
Steer clear then, for your sake. Come too close, look too hard and it will grow difficult to breath. Like bones crush together and the body's squeezed. Hard to see, hard to think, fangs sink into your very flesh. I've figured it out, I am within that tale. Though not a Dragon, nor Knight, nor Princess.
 
But a vile Serpent with a tint and taint upon my lips.