Cleaning the Wound

Garble was a preteen.

“Want,” his dad hissed.

“I’m trying,” Garble desperately replied.

He was pinned to the rocky floor of the cavern by his dad’s massive claw. Breathing was difficult as he scraped futilely against the ground, trying to find traction to leverage himself out of the situation.

“Not enough! You have to want it! You have to need it!” his dad continued.

“I know!”

“If you know, then do it!”

Once more, Garble tried to ‘want’. To call on his inherent Greed that every dragon had to grow in size and escape from this situation. He scrambled for any desire he had that could fuel him.

Get permission to leave the cave? He didn’t really want to do that, he just felt that he had to. Make friends? Slam Poet still made that word bitter in his mouth even if it had been a long time ago. Be stronger? Being strong was something he wanted, but his only model of strength was his dad and… he didn’t want to be his dad. Get his dad off of him?

That was the worst one to grasp for, since most of him just wanted to give up and let his dad— he didn’t want to finish that thought.

“I-I can’t do it!” Garble cried out.

Tears formed in his eyes. He hiccupped. He couldn’t have felt more pathetic if he tried.

His dad released him with a grunt of frustration and moved out of his vision. Garble sat back up, wiping the weakness out of his eyes as he wrestled with the intense feelings of shame he felt. Dad paced back and forth, shaking the cave with each heavy stomp.

“Sorry…” Gabrle muttered.

A harsh glare, shadowed yellow eyes looking at Garble with nothing but reproach.

Garble flinched.

“Never mind my permission to leave the cave anymore, you can’t keep being this pathetic,” he muttered.

Guilt tore at him inside. It was all his fault.

His dad stared into the middle distance for a while, weighing a decision in his mind. A decision was made.

“...Fine,” his dad said. “We just need to make it more real.”

“Make it—?”

Pain. Claws sliced through scales. He screamed as blood splattered the cave floors. He scrambled away, but was caught. The world rang out as his head was smashed against the cave wall.

“Fight back!” His dad roared at him. “Want it!”

Release. A moment of reprieve. Then he was flying through the air, his breath knocked out of him by a tail.

He coughed. A pool of red on rock. He was shaking.

“You’ll die if you can’t! I mean it!”

He hit the floor again. His own blood got in his eyes. He was seeing red. Red everywhere. There was more roaring, but Garble couldn’t hear it. There was red and blood and it was everything.

Garble couldn’t take it. He wanted it to stop. He needed it to stop.

No more blood. No more red. No more. No More. No More. No—

It came to him then. Strength coursed through his body as he felt his body crack to accommodate the flood of growth that went through him. It hurt. He screamed, it came out as a roar. Was it supposed to hurt this much? Wasn’t magic supposed to make it not? He couldn't stop it. He just grew and grew and—

Everything was burning. The red was burning up, disappearing. Like he wanted. His blood was on fire, both in and out. Heat filled him as his body turned into that of a feral beast.

Flames erupted along his back and wings and scales and everything.

It hurt. It was red. It needed to go away. All of it. It wouldn’t leave on its own. So he’d make it.

Heat exploded from him. It melted rock into glass. He wasn't even aware or in control of his body anymore. He wasn’t cog— cogni— what was even the word? Aware. He wasn’t aware anymore. Like someone else was making the decisions necessary to ensure they got what they wanted. Needed.

Something attacked him, them. They breathed gouts of flame at the attacker. It was making them hurt. That could lead to red. They needed to get rid of both.

It wasn’t enough as the next thing Garble knew, he was on the ground. Air wasn’t coming in. His vision became blurry. Strength left him as unconsciousness came.

Then suddenly he could breathe.

A huge gasp of air.

“Better than I could have even hoped for.”

His dad was overtop of him. He had one of those rare proud smiles on his face. He didn’t like it. Too many teeth.

“You’re just like me. Strong as a volcano.” He said that as if it wasn’t the worst thing Garble had ever heard. “Nothing will be able to hurt you.”

Then he left.

Garble curled in on himself, desperately trying to disappear, or at least be as small as he could be. His dad’s words echoed over and over again in his head.

He was just like his dad.

He was just like his dad.

He was—