"The sacrificial lamb, head bowed in submission to the inevitable. After he will come trotting back from his bloodied slate. Don't worry, he will always forgive you."

The essence of “The lamb” doesn’t have a set appearance in human form. Instead constantly shaping itself to the ‘click’ its supposed to fit into. Though its eyes can always be compared to those of an animal.

Its essence more set into its job. Built to be the first sent to it death. All the hope of some arbitrary group set on the shoulders of a sacrifice. Meant to be gutted and left on the alter, only to come trotting back into the pasture mere minutes later. It lacks the ability to feel pain even if it comprehends it. Sinking into its "human" job better than any other [xxx].

In human form there is little to nothing to give it away. The blood still spills and the meat is just as tender. He normally is not left with the memory of his past attempts or the holy space that is wedged in his chest. He is merely left with the sound carved into the base of his skull, telling him where to trot and what to do to appease.

The skies have always muttered orders to him, the list never ending as the blood stains pile up and stain the grass. Always moving towards a narrative he has little say in.


Most people never notice.


He is not always constrained by the churning of the machine. Sometimes the roaring gears slow to a soft hum and with that he has time. Nothing he does is permanent. The narrative would never allow it. But its nice none the less. The time to rest in a home he has never seen or to take comfort in those around him. The humming in return is his favorite song. A noise forever resting in his mouth. No mater where he turns, the almost inaudible sound of sun breaking through the leaves in the quiet afternoon. When he turns to face the sun is gets only faintly louder.










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