Page 39 of Ruby
He relaxes his tense muscles some more and rolls over with a slow wince of pain so I take the opportunity to properly take a look at the injury.
Before I can stop myself, I am reaching forward, ignoring the hum of his embarrassment as I gently move feathers out of the way so I can see his injuries.
Someone used what must have been the bluntest blade they could find to hack at his entire back area. Deep cuts run from his double shoulder blades to the sides of his body—presumably where they had missed his wings as they hacked them off.
The wingspan that must be required to carry a creature of his size must have been mind boggling. His wings had to have been absolutely beautiful and I retch as I think how they have now been cruelly cut to mismatched lengths, barely longer than my short human arms.
Besides the mix of horror and sadness, rage rears its head. And not the rage I associate with the Bitch. No, this rage is an inferno, yet somehow clean and bright. Like a focused beam of a laser, seeking a target to destroy.
It burned away the Bitch, and any other mask I might wear instead, in its intensity and I rode the unfamiliar wave as it rose up in me like its own new, powerful identity.
Someone was going to die for this.
“Who did this to you?” I ask, making sure to enunciate every staccato of anger in my song.
Why did I assume I was the only one they experimented on? Why did I not think he was a victim too? Am I that focused on myself? That self-centered, just as my mother proclaimed all those years ago?
This is who you really are, that ugly voice whispers to me and my heart stutters.
No. I refuse to finally have that same aching question of identity answered by something so… disgusting.
I push the ugly voice aside and look at the mangled end of a wing long enough for the beam of rage to rise in me again, sweeping away my doubt.
The sound of his heavy breathing distracts me from my thoughts. I crane around so I can look at his face, then to the side to see that he has opened up the other wing to fully show me what they look like. It is shorter on that side, cut up with the same instrument at the top and burned off closer to the bottom. The wounds are dried out in most areas but not completely healed and my heart breaks.
It suddenly occurs to me that he must have been bearing the wounds when he climbed up and down that tree to get me and all I had repaid him with were harsh words and even harsher screams.
Shame warms my body like a blanket, washing away the comparably comfortable rage. I have been horrible to this wounded creature, who has done nothing but treat me well and try to help me.
He sings back, his eyes shinier than usual. “Hunters.”
His thrum continues, rising in rage before falling into despair; the single word he spoke seems to have caused more pain than my hand smacking that most sensitive of areas. I’m even moresurprised that such a patient being has the ability to feel such powerful rage.
It makes him more… human. Somehow.
Far more real.
I place a hand on his midriff, unsure of how else to comfort him. He trills, folding up like a cat trying to get comfortable, but in painful fits and starts. I continue to apologize in a long, unbroken song, unsure of what else to do.
“My regrets, Szhe’ka. My regrets.”
“No regrets,” he assures me shortly, collecting himself and drawing his wings back as he tries and fails to get up, looking away from me the entire time, almost like he is shutting down the conversation.
He doesn’t want my pity.
I can understand that. I didn’t want his pity either. Pity reminds us that we’re weak and helpless. Such a bold creature isn’t helpless. He’s stronger than all the anger and suspicion I’ve thrown at him.
I want to lie to myself and say that I’m fine and the journey can continue like normal but every time I try to swallow, there’s a huge lump in my throat.
I realize I’m making it harder for him to struggle to his feet, so I step away from him and watch his large frame rise. The slantof his shoulders is deeper, not high and hopeful like it usually is and I can’t help but feel like it’s all my fault.
Of course it is.
What if he was captured and hurt on his way to come and rescue me, and that is why he is so attached? Like some sunk-cost issue where he somehow has to make the cost worth it.
Fuck.
I have always had to keep my guard up, trusting no one and depending on my instincts, which I don’t think have proven me wrong too many times before. Clearly this is one of them.
