I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
There has been very little of his life that has felt concretely real. Maybe Before (he thinks of it in that way – a proper noun, a time that he can barely imagine) things made more sense, had an order to them, a sense of grounding. But After –
(this, too, is made proper, because it shaped – no, remade – him, and he was never entirely sure of himself as a result)
well.
So this makes its own stupid sense, that he is at a river talking to a pale woman whose name he does not know about death.
She makes her confession, which is, of course, of a romantic nature – another thing Sleaze has little experience in. He’s loved, perhaps, but it was never healthy, and he had never told them that he’d felt such a way.
(Etro, whose presence stole his power, who gave him peace. Malis, who confirmed his worst fears, but also confirmed a shred of sanity. Both gone to him, now.)
He isn’t sure how to respond, so he only says, “oh.”
It means so little. Everything means so little.
She moves, then, takes a step into the river. He wonders if this is it, if she has had enough of this conversation. He wouldn’t blame her. She speaks again, and the words are heavier this time, and he realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t want her to die. Her confession does not warrant a punishment such as death, and Sleaze thinks he might rather be loved and betrayed – if it was indeed betrayal – than not loved at all.
“I think,” he says, “they would still rather have you alive. Even if you’ve hurt them. You’d want the same for them, wouldn’t you?”
Sleaze does not know what it is like to be hurt by someone else, not really. There has been no one to hurt him. No one save for his father, and his sudden, unexplained departure, but he thinks he would forgive him for it, if their paths ever crossed again.
Sleaze
@[Agetta]