β£ mediated by @gardenGuided
ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππ ππ:@grimbarkGuardian It feels good. Each cull is a check off the list, a number going up, a quota reached. You know in your heart of hearts that this is you. You can feel the edges of her imposition on your mind - hard, like steel. Where there would be neuroplasticity, there is resolution. It's clear to you the difference between what you *want* and what she *makes* you want. And you want this. You gleefully crush one with a pebble from its collection, made large. Another, you send one into the sky, sit on a rooftop and whistle as you watch it fall. You corner one, look it dead in the eyes eyes, and then kiss it so softly that it probably thinks you're going to spare it. And then, lips still locked, a flash of green energy turns its abdomen into viscera. You toss the head aside and giggle. You *giggle.* It feels good. To watch the light leave their eyes, to watch them hopelessly flee, to take and take and take. Because here's the part you never let yourself remember - She didn't make the Wolf. A brutal one for sure, but nostalgic nonetheless πΌπππππ’ πππ