Agnes vs The World

In a strange, purely irrational kind of way, this body feels wrong.

It comes and goes. She doesn't think about it often, but sometimes... sometimes, things feel off. She reaches out to grab something, and there's the faintest feeling of a phantom limb, gone as quickly as it came. It's disorienting, it's dizzying, and she doesn't like it. She wonders if she's the only one who feels this way. She can't imagine she is, but then again, it's not like she found any support books on the topic in the library.

It's frustrating, sure. But it's more than just a practical concern. She feels pathetic, like a meowler's toy or a ball. She tells herself she'll grow in time, and she will, she's sure, but... it's humiliating to be like this, in a world of fully formed creations that feel so much more real. If the first other blob she'd encountered had been more fully evolved, she probably would have been even more disoriented then she already was. At least it had been something that looked like her. That made it all feel a little less wrong, for a moment.

And then, even still, there's something deeper. Something ephemeral as mist, the muscle memory of an arm reaching out, of a hand on her shoulder. She shouldn't know what that feels like. It doesn't make any sense. It must just be her imagination, born out of a keen envy for the beings who are more complete, more capable of defending themselves.

But when she snaps back to herself after those moments, all she can feel is an intense disgust. The first time she saw white blood slowly seep from an open wound, she was so offput that she nearly vomited, wanting to bite her tongue but she had no tongue and no teeth to bite it with, wanting to hold herself but having no arms-

And then it was gone. She was alone with the vague feeling of something being off, and pale blood trickling down her body.

She did end up throwing up, but she would never be able to explain why, not even to herself.

Agnes just doesn't like blood, she supposes.

(Word count: 364/150)