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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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One more warrior. And, it truly is the little things.

Well. I had venom and bile to spit tonight, caustic and bleak, ashen but lit. I had a lot of things to say, and still do, though I don't speak that much.

Sometimes I wake up and I can feel myself oxidizing, on a fuel of confusion, hope, heart, and hurt. Burning alive, burning with each breath, burning like a mad dragon laughing.

I had my claws bared and teeth gritted. I was ready to break things, to scream a banshee cry, for little deaths and large ones. The dreams, I have them, but I can't remember. And what I remember is all bad.

I had all of these things and more in my fist, behind my fangs, inside my mask.

And they got deflected. By a pint-sized little orange bastard, discovered in a box outside of Safeway, not so very far from here. Like so many of the rest of us, he's sweet, sharp but paranoid, quick but sometimes clumsy, charming but wicked, too smart for his own good, and ready to strike or ready to purr depending on what's called for. He's orange-white, with an ocelot tummy.

His name may, perhaps, be Judeau.

(or Rocko, or Cabbit, or Kitty, or something else if I get voted down; cross your fingers)