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Itchy. Those scales of his. So, so itchy.
They were always a target of ridicule. All the kids from the village sneered at him. He helped a girl from drowning in the lake, he got called a frog man. If he tried to approach an adult for food, he would be called an abomination. If he simply minded his own business next to the lake, he would be pushed and held there for who knows how long until he would be unconscious. ‘Go back from where you came, you nasty slug!’ they would say. He was called so many names he doesn’t even remember most of them.
In the days where he couldn’t take it, he would take refuge in Uncle Ornn’s book (he barely remembered him. Just that he and mother got along well enough. And that he went on a long, long journey). It made the scales itch a little less. There, he could travel to many places, see big waterfalls, travel through twisting mazes, discover different cultures. He could escape this cage of a town.
And then when night fell, he would lay on the ground, the fantasy having ended. ‘Scratch those scales’ his brain would tell him. ‘If only they were gone, no one would hate you.’ He would scratch, and scratch, and scratch, and scratch, and scratch, and scratch, and scratch, and feel the blood pool up, and scratch again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, until he would finally fall unconscious.
A day would pass.
He wanted to become stronger. Before Uncle Ornn left, he told Caecus about their noble bloodline. On one hand, he was waiting for something to happen. He would go to the lake, stare into its bottomless abyss and dive. But then he would quickly surface, coughing, realizing that his gills are just bumps on his neck. ‘Why are they still not there?!’, he would bite his lip until it drew blood and then bury his head in his knees and cry in silence until someone came and shut him up.
Another day would pass.
He was hungry. He decided to sneak into a neighbors garden, where he grew apples. It wasn’t too well-guarded. He knew of a whole in the fence. He went in, climbed the tree, got an apple. ‘HEY!!’ the neighbor yelled, his terryifying figure getting closer. ‘Fancy spreading curses in my orchard now?! Get out, you wet rat! GET OUT!’ Caecus blinked and he was already limping to his house. He collapsed onto the floor and opened his bruised mouth to take a bit out of the fresh, red apple. He would remember its taste for weeks.
Another day would pass. He gets beaten up with sticks.
Another day would pass. He gets his hair pulled out.
Another day would pass. And another. And another.
Uncle Ornn came back. Or did he? He no longer looks like Uncle Ornn. Why can’t Caecus become like him?
His scales are itchy. So, so itchy. He must scratch them…
He must watch them sink into the bottomless abyss.