FFM17: Small Gestures
Damon did not like this game. No matter where he tried to hid, there were bad people with sharp objects and they would hurt Damon. Sometimes, the sharp objects would spark and he would cry out. Other times, these people would hit him with ropes, and crying out would make them hit him again.
Damon didn't know who these people were, only that they would pay his mother a small bag of coin each day. He was not allowed to say anything, and that gold would go to buy enough food for her and his sister each day.
Damon handled it. He didn't think about it. He switched hands, from his mother to his grandmother, and the beatings stopped. His grandmother passed away, from a sickness in her liver he was told. Damon didn't understand.
--"Hey," Damien shook the sleeping werewolf. "Hey, wake up.
""Mmmrph." Damon's eyes rolled back for a moment, and he swatted at the voice on instinct. His hand grazed Damien's arm, and the elf ignored the beads freckling the surface. He shook the werewolf again. "Ermph.. Polly?" Damon sat up, rubbing sand from his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Damien scrunched his eyes and shook is head. "Nothing. You were just whimpering in your sleep again. Go back to bed," Damon's head hit the pillow again, and Damien only dug through the nightstand for another bandage.
--In the morning, Damon had no idea what Damien was talking about. He didn't remember dreaming at night, or having been woken up.
"Polly, what happened to your arm?"
"Oh, this? I took a midnight stroll in the woods." Damien shrugged. "It's just a scratch."
--"DAMON, WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY PLANT."
Comments