10-18-2019, 06:34 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; This is only his second iteration (gods, how he hates to think of it like that – will there be more? He will go mad, surely, if he is not mad already), but it feels like much more. His first manifestation had lasted so long upon the earth, had seen murder and mayhem and love and heartbreak and heartbreak and heartbreak, and they are all things that he carries still. Not in such sharp relief, granted, but all those sins exist still, as ghosts and chains that do not leave him. (There was a time, brief, when he first returned and had almost no memory of his past. It has since returned, in part, not complete, but enough – enough that he does not want the complete story, the clear list of his sins. He wants them gone, banished from memory, but he shall never be so lucky, they are his crosses to bear.) He is deep in his thoughts, perhaps drowning in them, when the white mare approaches. He does not know her, but there is a certain something that draws the eye. Perhaps it is the immortality drawing immortality, the bizarre and unfortunate curse of persisting, whether it is wanted or not. He meets her eyes – a vivid blue – with his orange ones. He doesn’t smile, but his expression lightens as he claws his way out of his thoughts, focuses on her, however briefly. “Hello,” he says, then, “my name is Garbage.” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |