11. Wroahk

11

Wroahk

As dawn becomes morning, the ray of the sun hits the water, and darkness recedes from the shallow basin. I lurk beneath the surface, my tentacles floating and my senses alert as the creatures in the water begin their journey for the day.

After a patient wait, prey comes close enough and my tentacles snaps out just in time, capturing it and snapping its spine.

I repeat it a few more times until I am sated. Despite all this, the female laid out on the rock ledge still slumbers. The creatures of this world have awoken, and the ruthless cycle of life has begun, yet she remains in stasis.

I raise my head slightly above the water to observe her again.

Her consciousness fully departs as she sleeps and she becomes unaware of the world around her, despite the constant danger.

Weak, unpolished, clumsy. Not even the females of my species can be described as such. In fact, they are powerful hunters, each able to hunt independently, as is expected of any living being. Why do I continue to watch her when I have never paid the slightest attention to the females of my species?

It's best to avoid females. This lack of interaction is a survival mechanism that has kept the males of my species alive for a long time. We know just how dangerous interacting with the female of our species is and we do not do it to survive.

With her, it's just… different. Strange. Indescribable. I am drawn to a pathetic creature because she is female. She has long since no longer been food in my mind. I do not want anything to hurt her. I want to keep her in my sights all day and never let go.

I am losing my grip on reality.

It makes no sense to me, regardless of the fact that she is harmless. Unlike the females of my race, she cannot crush me in an instant or bite my head off. It's disgusting.

She has no strengths. Her sickly yellow hair is a terrible trait underwater. For a creature who is neither poisonous nor huge, she draws a lot of attention as prey. She makes a lot of unnecessary movements as well, screaming when she's in danger and using those bony limbs to get away in the loudest way possible.

I'm sure she would be a terrible swimmer. Using two limbs instead of several seems like a critical flaw. I can't imagine how horrifying I would look without my tentacles, and she seems to stumble around with just two.

A shiver passes through me at the thought of being so limited.

She has no sense of self-preservation, and a bottom feeder has more survival instincts than she does. If she dives under alone, she'll be gone in two bites.

I swim closer, still looking for an answer. All night I have stayed close to the shore, exhibiting my presence to the other creatures in the water as a deterrence, so none of them come close enough to snatch her away.

My fierce protectiveness over her scares me.

It's the first thing that ever has, and I feel the rage building again as I wonder what she did to me. How she took my voice.

Suddenly, I remember my enemy, and how I could understand their voice until they took it away. Did they do more to me? Are these new impulses because of them?

They must be.

My tentacles twitch with my desire to make them scream, and I taste the water yet again for any hint that they may be near.

Nothing.

So, they have changed me, but why in this way?

She should be here, with my limbs wrapped around her as she sleeps. I let out a hiss at the thought.

It's ridiculous, what they have done.

The night was long, and my eyes never closed in rest. My mouth tingles as I remember the taste of her blood in the water.

The metallic taste that settled on my tongue pulled up an insatiable curiosity. If it had been the blood of any other prey, I would've reached out to tear them to pieces and devour them until there was nothing left.

I must know why she is different.

And yet, I am disgusted at myself for feeling curious about a being so weak I can't be bothered to kill it. When have I ever been curious about anything or anyone?

Not that I have spent any length of time with anyone since leaving the violent pod of my youth.

Her eyes flicker open, but the next moment, she drops from the rock ledge I propped her on. I hear a crack when she falls and watch her scream out.

A bubble of breath escapes my lips to see yet another example of stupidity.

She attracts the predators I chased away earlier, but I spread out my tentacles to look bigger and scare them back down, picking one and throwing it against a nearby rock to make sure they don't come up.

I hope she does nothing else to harm herself as I swim back to her.

Inside me, there is a teeming discomfort, as if I'm not pleased that she feels pain.

She makes me doubt myself. Some part of me wants to perceive her differently and another part of me yearns to rip her apart.

No. For this creature who makes my thoughts as muddy as the lake shore, I only have a clear, if peculiar, dislike. This wanton curiosity and a lack of physical hunger for her is unacceptable.

There is nothing I hate more than change.