Miles doesn’t hate his tails.
No matter how much the people in his town told him to.
Even if every time he tries to play close by the village he gets chased and practically hunted down because some scary adults want to “hang out his tails on the wall”.
Even if the mothers pry their children away from him so they won’t “get cursed by the mutant”.
Even if his first memory is running from some big kids who chased him away from a store for eating some scraps from the garbage while yelling “Two tailed freaks don’t even deserve trash!”
The only apparent difference between him and the people who hate him being the number of tails, or rather, the not singularity of his.
It seemed like the reason why they all despised him was because of them, an abnormality, was the kindest way they called them.
They kept saying his tails were bad. But it didn’t made any sense. His tails weren’t bad. They kept him warm on the coldest nights, shelter him from the rain, and protect him from the town’s kid’s fists.
They were his only company and comfort, his blanket and pillow, and they were the only thing he had. He couldn’t hate them.
It didn’t matter if they were the apparent reason for his loneliness and the town’s rejection, Miles knew that even if he could cut one of them the townsfolk still wouldn’t want him.
His tails were big enough to cover him almost completely, protecting him by curling around him and not letting go even when the fur on them was ripped, torn, or burned. He could chew on the tip of their fur when his stomach hurt too much not to try and bite something, even if the matted fur on them might hurt sometimes. He didn’t have any toys or coloring books, but he could always play with his tails whenever he felt too lonely, he would chase them and they would not go away, sometimes they moved on their own when he was playing, he didn’t know why, but whenever it happened it made him feel a little bit happier, even if it meant as potential risk of him being found by his abusers if they moved when he didn’t tell them too, it still made him happy.
He could hug his tails while sleeping, pretending someone was actually there with him, if he concentrated enough, he could pretend the fur that was keeping him warm wasn’t his own, he could imagine it was maybe a loving mom, a caring dad, or… anyone, but he could feel loved.
He didn’t hate his tails.
Everyone hated him, and that might not have a solution, but everyone also seemed to hate his tails. He knows how it feels when everybody hates you, he doesn’t want his tails to feel like everyone in the world hates them too. So even if it’s just him, even if no one else ever likes them, and even if some day he dies because someone hated them enough to do something about it, he won’t hate his tails.
He doesn’t think anyone could love his tails ever, and he doesn’t know if he is capable of loving them himself, but liking them should be enough. He hopes his tails can understand.
He hopes that at least his tails could feel a little bit of love some day.
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