Post by Deleted on Dec 2, 2012 13:45:36 GMT -5
It was calm out today, the weather cool and the sun's rays gently reaching down to brush its golden touch across his thrice colored pelt. A light drizzle had been present this morning and though most of the moisture had been evaporated, there were still a few lingering droplets on the emerald blades of grass around him. His paws and lower legs were damp, as was his muzzle from sniffing at the earth's crust as he trotted sullenly through part of the Northern territory. He had not been here, in the Northern most part of Anikira, for a long time. He had previously been in the Western hemisphere but once the drought had started, he'd migrated here, where it was cooler but still comfortable, at least during the day. At night, however, it got cold, something he wasn't a fan of, but Switchblade wasn't about to complain. He had no right to complain. He deserved misery, deserved to tremble late into the night, hardly able to sleep, his mind plagued by sadomasochistic thoughts that he so desperately wanted to get rid of. He feared that they would worsen as he got older, feared that, eventually, he would have no self-control at all. Switchblade did not want to become a killer. He did not want to become his father; but Mother Nature did not seem to be giving him much of a choice.
With a sigh, the blue-eyed lupine reluctantly looked up, blinking against the glare from the sun, and was greeted by hellish image of large, golden wolves dancing through the meadow he had just entered moment ago. They were much bigger than any real wolves ever would be, their eyes nothing but gaping holes in their skulls. The longer he watched them, knowing that they were hallucinations but still feeling as if they were real, the harder his heart pounded in his chest. The holes in the lupines' skulls began to bleed, their bodies melting, wavering in the atmosphere, screams that were more feline than anything falling from their maws. "Stop it! Go away!" the young wolf found himself snarling as he charged at the hallucinations, his long legs propelling them forward as he lunged at one of the beasts. But they were gone, he was alone. As always, Blade was left alone. "See? They weren't real. They're never real." Once more, the brute sighed, his head hanging close to the ground. He had found that the more he stared down at the earth, the less he suffered from visual hallucinations. However, that did not stop his fractured mind from confusing him with auditory hallucinations. Some days it got so bad he could not even move, too frightened that the sounds and voices that he heard were actually real.
The most of all, though, had to be when both types of hallucinations were combined. Just the memory of the severe mental illness made the two year old shudder, a soft whimper escaping from his lips before his head shot up, eyes wide and ears pricked. What was that? His legs stopped moving him forward, his lips drawing back to expose his fangs as he growled, crouching down as the sound of paws hitting lightly against the terrain interrupted his thoughts. He could not tell if they were real or if they were just a figment of his imagination. The breeze was blowing away from him, carrying his scent across the meadow, and no matter how hard he tried the wolf could not decipher if the canine scent he could just make out on the wind was old or new or coming from a nearby pack. He had been alone for so long that he had become difficult, in a way, for him to pick out the scents of other wolves in these situations. He usually just tried to avoid them.
