I was born sickbut I love it
There is a sound like a heart being ripped from a chest (a sucking noise, a divorce from muscle and ligament, a slippery slurp of blood and suction). It’s both sudden and slow, leaking out from the crevices of the nighttime silence like an ancient slug of the dark. In a forested section of the land (somewhere nestled between the meadow and the field yet still far off the beaten path) scarred forelegs drag away from the decaying remains of a tightly-woven bundle of trees.
At first, it is as though the woodland is coming alive (tree trunks slowly put into movement, fallen leaves shifting off a rock, moist soil shifting at a disturbance). Nearby forest creatures scatter as though a monster is coming alive (and they might be right, their wild instincts screaming to run from the terrifying villain) and another heart-wrenching noise disturbs the quiet yet again. This time it is a slow moan, the sound of a jokester waking from a long sleep.
The moving woodland takes a shape (there is scarred legs, a gray face, white lightning strikes against the body, a blue and white left eye, a blue and black right eye, a gangly teenage boy build) as it removes itself from the scenery. Then with a sudden, lurching step, the jokester is on the move. He heads toward the scents of life (musky stallions, sweet mares, the mass of horse bodies converged together like a massive dinner party) with a wild look in his bruised eyes and a desire (no, not a desire – an instinctual need) for chaos.
LOKII
