10-08-2018, 09:12 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; Not a day goes by when he doesn’t think about how he’s not supposed to exist. Never mind that his very existence is a slap in the face to nature (demon-conceived, damned from the start). What matters is he died. He almost remembers it – the memories come and go, bright, awful flashes that leave him stuttering in the afterimage. He remembers water, cool then cold, he remembers darkness, enveloping. He hadn’t known, then, what his body could do – some wretched trace of magic from his mother (oh) or something else. He shouldn’t exist. Not anymore. He’s paid his dues, lived out a long and wretched lifetime. He is owed death. But death thinks otherwise, and so – And so. And so he is. No longer drowned. Existing. He looks young, now, reborn into a new body – his skin no longer sinks into his ribs, there’s no gray on his muzzle. He looks healthy. Vital. He’s barely aware of where he is, today, he wanders and time is a strange and slippery beast. He walks until he doesn’t. Until he pauses to rest in the shade, to stare out at the world with orange eyes, his existence a defiance and a curse. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |