Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

Peter frowned, not understanding Maea’s point. God was maybe hard to define, but cruel and evil? They were easy. Cruel and evil had faces in Peters kind, memories of the people who had made him the way he was now. No, he might not be able to pick them out immediately. His eyes followed the finger that ran through her hair again, a soft, apologetic frown on his face as he listened to her musings. His question had been much simpler, he had just asked it poorly. It was interesting though, to hear her points, get a clearer picture of the one of person she was, even if Peter didn’t necessarily understand everything Maea talked about. After Maea grew quiet, Peter opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to figure out how to explain what he had meant without being insulting. ”Some, um... some people.. they do think they’re... more. Better.” It felt... bad to say out loud, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the truth. And it led back to his original question as well. ”I didn’t... I didn’t get to pick, and I didn’t know. I don’t want to... get in trouble, or, or...” He knew he couldn’t be making much sense. Words had never been his strong suit but now he was truly lost, trying to keep track of new phrases as well as old. It would be easier to show her, then ask. Peter glanced around to make sure there was no one else to watch. Satisfied they were alone, then held his hand out in front of him. With barely a thought, a dagger appeared in his waiting hand, barely the length of his palm, and needle thin. He stared at his hand a beat longer, his brows furrowing, then offered the blade to Maea, handle first, unsure what else to do with it. ”I didn’t choose it.” He said again, like he was assuring himself as well as Maea. Peter didn’t want to get dirty looks, or be treated like he was inhuman again. He just wanted to know if he should try to hide parts of himself right away. Peter The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.