tw for mentions of abuse
A year. That was the amount of time Dadga had tasted freedom. A year he was released from his shackles, a simple year that he was able to enjoy the fresh crisp air, and the sounds of the freedom around him. This did not come without consequence, of course, and he was sure in the remainder of his life he would be remembered, hunted, pinned for the crime he had to commit for his own life. He was a prisoner to woman some time ago, and not the type that many would swoon. They only required one thing from him that, as a man, he was not willing to give. When he did not give, they would take. There was a brewing hatred in him, he could not deny, but for all that Dagda was he still somehow did his best to see past what they were in means of not projecting onto the next he met. They were not all the same. A reminder he constantly had to pep talk himself into, though when approached or touched by woman he still could not hold back the involuntary reflex of his muscles yearning to run. Here, in Perth, in the place he made his home he felt safe. Silenced away from the world by the thick of the brush and left to enjoy the gentle sounds of the flowing rivers that tucked between mossy grass. |
table by rae - image on pexels |