Forever Luna

containment

noun ~ the action of keeping something harmful under control or within limits

POLLUX

I think about the sky a lot.

Not the colour of it, but the sound. The way it feels when you stand somewhere high enough to hear the wind move through open air. When I close my eyes, I can almost taste it.

Freedom.

I used to chase that sound. New places, new faces, endless miles of open road. I was never meant to stay still. If I stopped too long, I'd go mad.

Now I'm rotting in a box.

I can't tell how long I've been here now, my memories blurring at the edges. Whole days vanish into blank spaces. I talk to myself sometimes, just to hear something that sounds human, but my voice doesn't sound right anymore. It's too small, too dry.

Minions come and go, whether to feed, bathe, or escort me somewhere. I rarely saw the man in charge now, ever since he whacked me across the head with something until I saw stars. His frustration was easily triggered, but he was always complaining about things.

Always talking as though we were one.

We.

As if we were in perfect unison.

I thought about that a lot. Why was he grouping us together and comparing us to wolves? Was he a lycan, or just a man who thinks himself worthy? Beneath the mousy brown hair, I struggled to see his facial features; my sight not improving much since things became brighter.

I've learned his rhythm: the way he clears his throat before he speaks, the faint squeak of his boots, the metallic rattle of whatever tray he carries in his pockets. He talks to himself sometimes, or to whoever he thinks is listening. Things about progress, control, and phases. He says that we will change everything.

I've stopped listening.

When I was first taken, I fought until my throat dried from shouting. I promised myself I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking me. But it's easy to make promises when you think there's an end.

Now, there's just... this.

I can't smell the trees anymore. Can't hear the birds. Can't feel the warmth of sunlight on my skin. I can't even remember what the stars look like beneath my closed eyelids.

Everything's just... dark.

The world keeps moving out there without me. Nova's raising her children; the pack is living, fighting, breathing. Spring is coming, people are falling in love, the tides are still shifting.

And I'm here. Forgotten.

I used to wonder if anyone was looking for me. Now I'm not sure I want them to.

There's a comfort in being lost, in knowing the world doesn't owe you rescue. You could be whatever you want to be. You can rot in a cell and nobody would care. And nobody does. The staff still bow to me, baring their necks, but I've long since lost interest in why.

Still, when I sleep, I dream of places I've been. The sweet, dusty smell of an old market or the call of wolves under starlight. The salty air of the cliffs with the prettiest green eyes staring at me before a sunset...

I dream of freedom, and it hurts.

Because I wake up here.

Because my world is four walls, and my name feels foreign in my own mouth.

Because I can feel myself fading like smoke. Like I was never really solid to begin with. Like I never had a purpose other than to be the aftermath of a hazard.