Anyone;

[Shiya]

Deep down all you want is love
The pure kind we all dream of

”Maybe it’s to keep me sane,” she murmurs as her viridian eyes lift to his orange, searching his unmarked face and the gentleness that it expresses, ”Maybe it’s to talk me off the ledge.” The aftermath of Vulgaris’ threat has been nothing more than dismal. Every thought that trickled into her mind involved her own demise, and even the child’s growing in her womb. It seemed so feasible, so great of an idea, that her wanderings frequently placed her at the beach where corpses littered the sand. She watched in silence as the waves lapped soothingly at the sand, a metronome whispered to her and luring her closer.

And every time, she turned away, unable to follow through.

A sigh of air escapes her – a breath she didn’t know was being held – when Garbage touches her, too. It’s strange now to feel only hair under her lips, no scales. There are no fangs tracing down her neck such as when Vulgaris embraced her. Garbage is tender, comforting. Admittedly, he retracts far too soon, too quickly. She wants more. She wants to press into him, to know what it is to melt into someone so gentle. Even as he peels his mouth from her neck, Shiya remains rooted. Her softened gaze rarely strays from him as she reminisces of their rendezvous together, and how fleeting it had been. She was desperate then, but not much has changed. Without confessing it to others, her heart aches for love and companionship but her mind has resigned from the futile efforts.

A hum vibrates her core as she blinks and tries to sweetly smile. I don’t, she wants to challenge and say, but instead she whispers, ”Thank you.” It would be bothersome if she disagreed with his apology, as if he has a role in her life’s turmoil.

(They have a child, but it’s her fault it’s defective. It’s always her fault.)
Cretin, she remembers. Their son is Cretin.

Garbage doesn’t ask – she doesn’t expect him to – and she is pleased to push her mistakes aside and avoid announcing how terrible of a mother she is. None of her children love her. How could they? Heartlessly, Shiya discarded each of them because nothing was able to fill the void in her pitted heart and soul. They were bothersome attempts of happiness; they were her failures.

Unable to resist (so desperate, so inclined to feel something), Shiya edges again closer to him, but she gives pause, briefly. ”Hold me?” Her voice is soft, meek even, just as it had always been. Such a fool she was to think herself strong and independent. Breathing him in and waiting for him to decide, she refrains for only a few moments longer before asking, ”Have you ever been happy, Garbage?”

SHIYA

But we cannot escape the past,
so you and I will never last

original html by Jassal


@[garbage]