12-02-2018, 06:14 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; She is a predator, and he is prey, no doubt – not only because of nature’s laws, but because he exudes a sort of weakness, it seems. He is easy pickings, low-hanging fruit, a man desperate and strange and returned from the dead, too full of hazy memories and aching desires to be of much use. Maybe he was a predator, once – he’s a killer, sure enough, his body may be new but there’s still blood on his hands. (Those memories are faint and indistinct, and he is grateful for that small mercy – that he does not have to recall with any degree of vividness what it was like.) So he is small because her unwavering gaze. He is not frightened, not exactly – with the fleeting insight of instinct gone, he is like with his conscious mind, and his conscious mind is much less devoted to keeping him alive – but he is cautious. “My name is Garbage,” he tells her, “what’s yours?” He’s barely finished his question before she fires off another, which he answers. Compliant in all things. “I lack a true home,” he says, “so I wander.” He’s never found true solace in any one place (save, maybe, for the depths of the ocean, in those final heaving moments), and thus, he keeps searching. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |