11-25-2018, 06:56 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He had scars, once, a slew of them he thinks he can sometimes feel. But when he goes to touch them he feels only his coat, slick and glossy. The scars are memories, too, gone in his new body, and it feels strange, to live without them. This body has not been kissing distance from death, like the old one. This body has not killed, either. It’s only the memories of both, haunting. Scars of another sort. He sees the glimpse of orange in the corner of his eye, and before his mind even registers the creature his body has gone tense, on high alert, a thousand years of instinct crying out that a predator is in his midst. He whirls, wild-eyed, ready to run, when the tiger begins to change, form shifting, no longer feline but equine, and then before him stands a smoky black mare. His heart’s still pounding, trying to accept the change. He manages a shaky exhale, wanting to laugh at himself, but also feeling a strange relief that some semblance of survival instinct remains in him. The instinct hasn’t gone so far as to keep him from wandering infected lands, but never mind that. He manages a smile to the mare, the smile weak and watery, but there nonetheless. “You startled me,” he says, and laughs, then, “hello.” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |