FREEDOM, FREEDOM, I CAN'T MOVE - PRIVATE

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]Hotline did not know where he was.

Of course, that was to be expected; he had not ventured past ColouredClan territory many times. He had only made one visit to ShadowClan before to drop off ColouredClan’s members for the member exchange, as well as a small number of other pop-ins to other allied clans for gift baskets and so on. Not like those truly counted – he’d been given directions.

The cat strode along the barren land with the sun blazing overhead, squinting to see in front of him and trying not to overheat. It was a hot summer’s day, and he had finally got his mind to mellow out into a state of blankness. The emptiness of his head was calming. After he had first fled ColouredClan, shame and remorse was all that occupied his thoughts, and it was hell living with himself. It was almost like he was caught even more in the abyss of his mind. The new quiet of complete alienation did not help the cause.

A sigh whistled from his chapped lips as he continued on, paws aching with each step. How long had he been alone? He had tried not to count. But it felt like a very, very long time. It seemed like he had strayed quite a ways from him homeland, but he had not wandered in any other clans’ territory yet, so he must’ve still been in the loner lands.

He winced as a sudden pain struck his front left paw – pausing from his stride, he rose the affected foot and searched for a cause. Behold, a thorn had embedded in one of his pawpads. Face crinkling in distaste, he looked back up, chose a tree with the most shade offered, and limped over to it.

Slumping against the scratchy trunk, he rose his paw and drew his tongue over it to smear away the blood, before beginning to tenderly close his teeth over where the bottom of the thorn stuck out.

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]He had just eased it out with a soft grunt of pain when a voice caught his attention; his ears flicked as he peered upwards at the face of Annabelle, face blank for more than a few seconds after she spoke.

Hallucinations were nothing unfamiliar. They had happened often, especially during the time periods when he had spent more time alone in his old apartment, milling over his depression. He could always tell that they were hallucinations, though. There was always that cold quality to the voices, to the expressions. Since they were only in his head, sometimes some features would be blurry too, parts of faces that he hadn't memorized. It wasn't real. Not like that stopped him from screaming, but still. It was always something to assure himself with at the end as he lay alone afterwards, chest heaving, throat raw, fur matted with dried tears. It something, and something was more than nothing.

So now, as he stared so blankly in front of him at his mother, his brain made slow connections, neurons connecting and transferring information. Usually the bad dreams and hallucinations had some type of blood smeared on the body, but she was clean. And the images did not have a smell - but up close, he inhaled the feminine scent she possessed, so raw, so real.

He did not completely recognize her face. All that he remembered of his young mother was her warmth, that brisk tired smile. For he could not bear to look at her face, the last glance at her paw, the final hint of what was left, before he turned and left her funeral.

"Ma?" It was a whisper. Then he was crying, crying ugly tears that bubbled at the ends of his half-closed eyes before clotting and eventually dribbling down his face.

In a way, he did not want to see her. He had spent too many hours, days, months, grieving over her. He cried after what he saw in other mothers caring for their children, angry that he could not get the same. He did not cope with her death because he didn't know how. For the entire seventeen months he had been breathing after the day Annabelle died, he had been bitter over the loss, telling himself that he'd likely never see her again. He would never get a mother. The world had proved he didn't deserve one by taking her away.

That's just... that's just how it went.

But now - now she was right in front of him, and he could tell this was not one of his normal hallucinations. He was overloaded by the situation, and he just kept sobbing, confused and scared. Had the technology of his fear become so advanced he could not even tell what was real or not anymore? Or was this real? It felt so real.

Shaking, the twenty-two moon old would reach out with a hesitant paw, toes trembling, then would tenderly try to rest it against the side of her face.

As he met warm fur, his first instinct was to yank back his foot, but something held him there, and he would continue to cry, bottom lip curling. He wasn't thinking anymore. He just felt her, smelled her, saw her.

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]. . .

I'm sorry for giving up on you.

Those were the most pure words he had ever heard. In one sweep, it tore away the pain of Soul's taunting, the agony of loneliness, the pain of bloody memories that came back to haunt him. It was closesure, forgiveness to everything. As he was tugged into an embrace, he would continue to shake with shock, but the fear had subsided, and his tears were more of acceptance. Acceptance, a mixture of sadness and happiness but not quite leaning on either side.

She was... so small. Though he was scrawny from lack of self-care, he still outweighed the smaller cat, and he would carefully close his arms over her neck, though did not give any pressure in a returned hug. He had not touched anyone much. Nobody got close enough to him to do so. He pushed everyone away before they could. No physical affection that he received was truly sincere, so full of emotion as this one. The closest thing he got to loving touches was the occasional arm swung around his neck from Bumblebee.

Still, though, her smallness fascinated him. He remembered her to be so much more, so much more, so much more bigger. His view on the world as a kitten surely exaggerated it to be so. As he shook in her grasp, he would finally rest his chin down on her shoulder, inhaling her scent. It was different from what he remembered it to be, a memory affected by time, but in a way, it was exactly the same.

"N - No..." He said. His voice cracked at the end, even though it was such a simple word. "Don't."

He had looked for an answer for a long time. But now, here, he did not want one. He was afraid that if he pulled back, she would disappear, and his brain would laugh at him, despite having already identified it was really her in the flesh. He just wanted to be in his ma's fur. Right back as it was when everything first started.

Just a little longer. He would plead with the crease between his eyes as he did lightly begin to press his paws against her lower neck, pushing her against him, accepting her hug.

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]He knew it had to end. He knew there had to be things said. But still, he couldn't help but squeeze his eyes a little tighter, and keep her in his arms for just a few more slow seconds, before regretfully pulling away.

When he first retreated back to lean against the tree, his eyes blinked upon her face for the second time - but he found it was too overwhelming for him to look at her straight, and he had to look away to the ground, a soft sigh whistling from his maw.

Was this good or bad? A strike of anxiety prickled at his chest. "What is it?" He would ask quietly, raising a paw to wipe hurriedly at his damp face. Despite this, tears continued to flee down his cheeks, unwilling to stop. His mom was here. So much had happened since he last saw her. So much to explain and tell her about. There were the bad things, but there were the good things too, and it wasn't like she needed to know the negative stuff. He'd just tell her the good stuff. Like promotions and more births and good people who had one lived alongside him but did no more.

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]( so sorry about late reply! )

He swept his arm over a cheek again. Still trying to get it to stop. He needed to be serious. What was he doing? Acting like a baby.

"I - I only heard things... from Lucy, mostly. I guess she's the only one who.. who really talked about stuff like that. But... I don't really know. I don't." Death was so mysterious. It swept by so quick, and nobody dared to lift their voice to speak about who had been taken. Once someone was dead, they were gone. Maybe they'd come back. Only those who knew the departed would continue to think, never speak, about who they were. And it was over. Generations swept by.

He doubted... He doubted anyone in ColouredClan spoke about him anymore. He'd been gone awhile. Not died, but simply disappeared. He already knew in the back of his mind what had happened. He'd seen it with others members who left. Maybe a little sadness would stay for a day or two, then it was swept away, and that member was simply a memory stored in the back of a head. There was bound to be tons of new members, too, who had never known his name. Never seen his face, and likely to never do so. That was the end. He had finished his cycle there. Even though ColouredClan was the only home he could think of, he knew that he could not go back anymore. He didn't belong anymore.

The man who was still a boy inside would sigh. "I don't really remember Da." He would say quietly, as to prevent cracks in his voice. "Just... a snippet. A reminder that he was there once. But I don't really remember him. Not what he looked like, what he sounded like, what he said. Nothing."

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]The cat paused.

Lucy certainly had not mentioned that.

His mouth moved, but he was shocked into silence, his crying jerking to a stop. Angel? Reaper? Those were real? He had never taken them seriously, brushing the words off like an afterthought, but hearing Annabelle say them was a different experience. It seemed like the breath had been pried from his lungs, for he stood like a stone figure for quite some time before his nostrils flared and he greedily sucked in gasp of oxygen. "I don't -" He mumbled. "I don't understand."

He could perhaps accept that this femme in front of him was an angel, and that there were reapers out there and maybe a few reproduced with mortals, but thinking that he, that kid who had been stuck in his mind for all his life, that kid who had seen blood on the walls, that kid who had seen family with their heads violently bashed in, that he was what Annabelle said, was unbelievable. How did he have any purity in his blood? And if indeed there was also Reaper cells multiplying in his veins, what did that do to him? How had this dictated his life, yet he didn't even know?

He rested a paw over his mouth.

"Ma... oh my god."

[fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:8pt; text-align:justify; line-height:125%; width:350px; margin-top: -5px;]Reaper, angel, banshee. A family of cold blood.

Overwhelmed by the information, he replaced his paw from his mouth to the top of his head, and the other soon followed suit. Pressing down, he squeezed his eyes shut again. It was only when he felt something warm dripping down his temple did he open his eyes again, and he removed a leg from his cranium. Observing the paw, which now had the blood form the thorn puncture smeared across the pads, he flinched. Even his own blood made him uneasy.

Peering down at the smaller animal, he swallowed, then attempted at a meak smile. "Sor -" He said, only to halt when his voice cracked, still choked with emotion. Clearing his throat, he waited before trying at it again. "... sorry." He mumbled, pressing the paw against the ground, hoping she didn't notice, despite knowing already there was now blood on his head. At least it was a small distraction - the returning pain made his thoughts scatter, and his muscles would slack, leaving him wilted against the trunk behind him like an old flower.