if the heavens ever did speak
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
He finds himself wishing, in a strange way, that he could take her back to his first home. It hadn’t been in Beqanna, had existed elsewhere in the strange realm of Outside. The place had been much like the meadow, truth be told, but it had been isolated, quiet. He wonders if she would want quiet, or if she prefers chaos, liveliness.
He wonders why he wants to show her these things – the creek, clear and cool, the moss where he once knelt in prayer.
He’s a fool for it, for there is an air about her, a sense of royalty in her face and she’s surely seen better, known better things than he or the place that was once home.
(He doesn’t even know if he could find it, now that he is such a changed man.)
“Outside of Beqanna,” he tells her, “it didn’t have a name. Or, I didn’t know it. My father didn’t want to stay in Beqanna.”
That’s its own sordid tale, for Sleaze came about amidst ill magic, a child born to two lovers who were lovers no more by the time he’d come to term, so he never met his other father, was only told idle tales, piecemeal morsels of information - he was a magician. He was grey. His name was Cancer--
(Here there was always a laugh, embittered at the irony of the name, the way the man had loved like a sickness, virulent and pestilent and impossible.)
He healed me, so I loved him.
He knows little else of the tale, for Garbage did not speak of him often. Once, quietly, he’d said you have his eyes, and somewhere in the tone was thankfulness, and somewhere in it was remorse.
(Sleaze himself had wished for bright orange eyes like Garbage, he found them beautiful.)
“I loved it there,” he adds, “it was home until dad left. And then it wasn’t.”
The place had lost its light after that, and Sleaze had lost himself to half-formed prayers.
“What about you?” he asks, though he’s worried it’s a more delicate topic for her, to speak of such a poisonous place.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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