if the heavens ever did speak; saedis

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife He has a way of wandering into sinkholes. He feels things tug at his feet, a threat of drowning, and he thinks I should turn back. Yet he never does. He slogs forward, towards nothing, towards sinking, towards suffocation. (Had there been an opportunity to turn back, at his quests? When he was in a strange world in a strange form? Maybe. Maybe.) She is shocked, clearly, a thread of fear, as well. He wonders why. Wonders what they are, to each other. (No, he doesn’t have to wonder – it’s obvious. Even to such a stupid boy, it’s obvious.) I love him, she says, and Sleaze feels a momentarily flit of jealousy. Not that she loves him, or that Garbage no doubt loves her back. But Garbage was his world, his father and mother both, for years. Garbage raised him in a meadow and taught him to pray beneath a midday sun and then one day he just left, and Sleaze woke up alone, and he hasn’t seen him sense. (He’d heard he’d died, and he’s grieved, briefly. It appears now he was misinformed.) “I’m his son,” he says, weak, “his and Cancer’s, but he’s the one who bore me. And raised me.” Cancer had left not long after Sleaze’s magical conception, or so Garbage had told him. Sleaze only knows one parent. “He left,” he says, spills that awful truth at her feet, embarrassed even in saying it, “for years, he raised me, and then he left, without saying goodbye. I thought he was dead.” sleaze cancer x garbage