Pincushion

"Made with love"
From,
grandma.

He held the parchment tag softly in his paws, careful not to tear the delicate material with his claws. That was easier said than done, as he struggled to keep his paws from shaking violently and tearing the paper asunder. Slowly, cautiously, he undid the string that tethered the note to the arm of the slouching doll. He lifted it up, examining it more closely. His grandmother's handwriting was as beautiful and neat as always, warmth radiating from the letters that contained more style than even the most skilled calligraphists. He sniffed it, his nose wrinkling as his chest tightened up. It smelled of a den that had been well-lived in, the ink his grandmother's special recipe. It smelled like home, a home he would never again be able to visit. Unable to stop the strangled cough that forced itself out of his throat, he gently set the parchment down upon a nearby table. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he snatched the doll it had been attached to and flung it with all his might against the adjacent wall.

The doll hit the wooden surface with a resounding “thunk”, sliding lifelessly down to the ground. There it lay, limp and unresponsive. Zaden felt something well up in his throat, and he choked out a sob as hot tears started to run down the sides of his face. His limbs felt like jelly, and it was all he could do to keep himself from collapsing on the floor and melting into a puddle of sorrow. The doll only watched, unseeing glassy eyes staring right at him, marbles rolling around in the skull.

There was a noise behind him, and Zaden failed to stifle a sniffle as he turned to see his mate Wrexon standing unsurely in the doorway. Wrexon’s gaze was sad and knowing, and a flicker of pity flashed through them when he turned his eyes to stare at the fallen doll. Zaden couldn’t help but scowl slightly— he hated being pitied. Wrexon approached him, paws padding softly upon the wood, and rested a comforting wing over his mate.