07-09-2018, 08:47 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; It takes him a moment to stir from his melancholy. He moves slowly sometimes, as if underwater (another memory, that, the feeling of sand beneath his hooves, the crash of waves, a burn of long-gone seawater at the back of his throat). He blinks, shakes his head, as if his memories were tangible things that could be reset by something so simple as motion. It doesn’t work, of course, but it moves him back into action. He eyes the tobiano stallion with curiosity, notes his wings and their strange angle – broken, then. He wonders if he was born that way or if it was an accident. (He knows the noise of bones breaking. It’s a theme in nightmares. Skulls cracking, orange eyes rolling on the sand.) He himself had been traitless, or presumed himself so, until he died and came back, until his new and impossible existence. He still has no word for it, what had happened - why it had happened. He smiles, polite, dips his head to the other stallion. “Hello, Gear. My name is Garbage,” he says. Uncomfortable with the silence – or perhaps simply desperate for company – he continues on. “Do you live in the meadow?” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |