Gah, the end of the alphabet. My song choices are getting harder. So little songs that start with the letter inspire me on this end.
You're off again, trying to find some way to fix me. It's rather endearing, well, it used to be. With each time you set off to follow rumors of some new type of cure and return with either something that doesn't work or empty hands I've grown more and more depressed with the idea that the eagle's attack has permanently grounded me.
I will never fly again. I am a cripple.
I feel sorry for yelling at you, for the action of raising my voice. And while my chest still hurts at the tears in the corner of you eye as you flew off, I don't regret my words.
You have to understand Spacia, you will never, never, find a way to get me back in the sky. I will never again leave the confines of this pitcher plant and the branch it sits on. Other faeries will have to constantly bring me food, as there is little to offer here. And I have nothing to offer them in return. On top of that, with limited access to sunlight, my magic is rarely replenished.
I am a useless member of society.
I understand you are willing to fly me to the tree tops and gather food for me, but you shouldn't have to live your life around mine. You are young, find someone else.
I don't want you helping me.
Which is of course what sent you off in tears to begin with. I don't like the person I'm becoming, an invalid who needs help for the simple act of surviving. It's embarrassing and shameful, and I don't like knowing you see me in such a weak state.
I love you, always will, but I can tell my shredded wings are breaking our relationship. We are trapped at the start of a downward spiral and while you are upset with me now and I am peeved at my condition and your naivety and thinking it can be fixed, I see that in the future such feelings will fester and we will begin to hate each other.
I want to fix that, more than my wings.
I need to find some way to be useful, some way that doesn't depend on having a full source of magic and that I can do from my cramped home. But you keep looking to return things to what was and your lack of understanding makes me want to push you off a leaf some days.
Stop trying to make my life livable and enjoy yours. With time, I'll figure mine out on my own without a potion made from rain that fell at the North Pole or a salve made from a rubber leaf soaked in ocelot blood and tied on with a unicorn mane strand.
When you come back Spacia I'm going to say those same words again, this time at a more reasonable level, and hope that unlike yesterday you listen to what I'm saying.