12-07-2019, 07:41 PM
<center><table width="550" style="background: #111315;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="padding:10px"><center><font color="#941818" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:9pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;"><b>Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;</b></font></center>
<font color="#c9d0d6" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:11pt; line-height:12pt;"><font color="#c9d0d6">
<i>
He moves into the water, compelled by forces beyond his meager comprehension. The water is cool, soothing against his wounds, and his eyes flutter closed, allowing a brief moment of relief.
Then, the visions come.
He first sees a dark mare, frantic and crying out someone’s name. She’s at a cliffside, and does not seem to notice him, but he notices the precariousness of her hooves to the edge, he can taste death on the air, and he looks away before she falls. An ugly sight, to be sure, but he has seen death enough, he has time to draw a shaky breath, and then—
Then he is witnessing a scene he has relived a thousand times. He sees Craft, beautiful in the sunset, and he sees himself, monstrous and lumbering across the sand, a distorted mirror of how he had just walked the sands not long ago.
He knows this story. He’s lived it.
He sees, or he imagines he sees, the desperation in the dark horse’s eyes. He can no longer recall the feeling of fury that had spurred him on, then, fury was an emotion that had burned to nothing, had left behind embers of despair and self-loathing.
This stallion – this version of Garbage – is furious. He is haunted and terrible and there is blood on his hooves already, from Fia’s murder.
He wants to turn away, because he knows how this story ends. But he watches. Stands witness as he watches himself kill his mother, maul himself. His lips move with the cries.
Is this enough, mother?
The vision does not show what came after – the magician who was there, who took him in, saved his worthless life, the stallion to whom he was consort, the stallion to whom he bore a son (he’d been alone, by then – Cancer had left him for another, but Sleaze had stayed, had stayed until Garbage had sent him away).
It's clear, of course, what he is meant to do. It’s clear, of course, what he chooses.
He’s standing back on the sand, and it’s sunset now. Craft’s head turns and looks at him, and her eyes are filled with hatred, and there is a moment when the old, long-dead fury blossoms, and he thinks, why couldn’t you just love me?
The answer is obvious, creeping over the dune, breathing heavy. Garbage moves between the queen, faces himself, staring into those goddamned orange eyes.
“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is ragged, shredded, and he doesn’t know if it will work, because he was so </i>angry<i> then, but he knows there is sadness under the anger, sadness and hurt.
“This will ruin you,” he says, “trust me.”
The stallion – this version of Garbage – stops. The whites of his eyes are showing, gleaming bright against the dark of his skin,
“Look at me,” he says. He’s staring into the orange eyes, a terrifying mirror, “you can change your life. I wish…I wish I could go back.”
“She—” croaks the other-Garbage, the one will blood on his mind, and Garbage doesn’t know exactly what that version of himself means to say, yet he does, well enough. Some semblance thereof.
“We’re a monument to the worst times of her life. She can’t – won’t – change. It doesn’t matter.”
A pause, and he continues, “please. Turn back.”
He’s shocked when other-Garbage obeys, his hooves dragging in the sand, and then he’s gone, over a dune, and the life that unfolds after is different, but Garbage will never know how, because his own path has been set.
Garbage looks at his mother. She is drawn tall and her amber eyes are wide open, still shocked and confused. He wonders if she knows what she avoided.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He is. Sorry for being born. Sorry for the orange eyes. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
“You should go,” he continues, “back to the safety of your kingdom. They’ll protect you.”
She doesn’t move. She looks at him. Her gaze is inscrutable.
“Thank you,” she says, hesitant.
It’s enough.
</i>
</font><center>
<font color="#941818" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:9pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;"><b>Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.</b>
</font></i></font>
</center></div></td></tr></table></center>
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;</b></font></center>
<font color="#c9d0d6" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:11pt; line-height:12pt;"><font color="#c9d0d6">
<i>
He moves into the water, compelled by forces beyond his meager comprehension. The water is cool, soothing against his wounds, and his eyes flutter closed, allowing a brief moment of relief.
Then, the visions come.
He first sees a dark mare, frantic and crying out someone’s name. She’s at a cliffside, and does not seem to notice him, but he notices the precariousness of her hooves to the edge, he can taste death on the air, and he looks away before she falls. An ugly sight, to be sure, but he has seen death enough, he has time to draw a shaky breath, and then—
Then he is witnessing a scene he has relived a thousand times. He sees Craft, beautiful in the sunset, and he sees himself, monstrous and lumbering across the sand, a distorted mirror of how he had just walked the sands not long ago.
He knows this story. He’s lived it.
He sees, or he imagines he sees, the desperation in the dark horse’s eyes. He can no longer recall the feeling of fury that had spurred him on, then, fury was an emotion that had burned to nothing, had left behind embers of despair and self-loathing.
This stallion – this version of Garbage – is furious. He is haunted and terrible and there is blood on his hooves already, from Fia’s murder.
He wants to turn away, because he knows how this story ends. But he watches. Stands witness as he watches himself kill his mother, maul himself. His lips move with the cries.
Is this enough, mother?
The vision does not show what came after – the magician who was there, who took him in, saved his worthless life, the stallion to whom he was consort, the stallion to whom he bore a son (he’d been alone, by then – Cancer had left him for another, but Sleaze had stayed, had stayed until Garbage had sent him away).
It's clear, of course, what he is meant to do. It’s clear, of course, what he chooses.
He’s standing back on the sand, and it’s sunset now. Craft’s head turns and looks at him, and her eyes are filled with hatred, and there is a moment when the old, long-dead fury blossoms, and he thinks, why couldn’t you just love me?
The answer is obvious, creeping over the dune, breathing heavy. Garbage moves between the queen, faces himself, staring into those goddamned orange eyes.
“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is ragged, shredded, and he doesn’t know if it will work, because he was so </i>angry<i> then, but he knows there is sadness under the anger, sadness and hurt.
“This will ruin you,” he says, “trust me.”
The stallion – this version of Garbage – stops. The whites of his eyes are showing, gleaming bright against the dark of his skin,
“Look at me,” he says. He’s staring into the orange eyes, a terrifying mirror, “you can change your life. I wish…I wish I could go back.”
“She—” croaks the other-Garbage, the one will blood on his mind, and Garbage doesn’t know exactly what that version of himself means to say, yet he does, well enough. Some semblance thereof.
“We’re a monument to the worst times of her life. She can’t – won’t – change. It doesn’t matter.”
A pause, and he continues, “please. Turn back.”
He’s shocked when other-Garbage obeys, his hooves dragging in the sand, and then he’s gone, over a dune, and the life that unfolds after is different, but Garbage will never know how, because his own path has been set.
Garbage looks at his mother. She is drawn tall and her amber eyes are wide open, still shocked and confused. He wonders if she knows what she avoided.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He is. Sorry for being born. Sorry for the orange eyes. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
“You should go,” he continues, “back to the safety of your kingdom. They’ll protect you.”
She doesn’t move. She looks at him. Her gaze is inscrutable.
“Thank you,” she says, hesitant.
It’s enough.
</i>
</font><center>
<font color="#941818" style="font-family:times new roman; font-size:9pt; line-height:12px; letter-spacing:2pt;"><b>Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.</b>
</font></i></font>
</center></div></td></tr></table></center>