01-14-2018, 06:17 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; She comes, quiet, and it’s by the touch of her shoulder to his that he first knows her. He isn’t sure, exactly, how long it’s been since he was last touched, only that in the fleeting moment of contact something in him stirs and cries out, a slumbering desperation, and a shiver crosses over his body. She’s too familiar, and a part of him – and old part – wants to want her of this. There are desperate creatures out there, ones who will find a sincerity in her fleeting touches and sweet tone, ones who will make too much of it and put her on a pedestal for it. He was such a creature, once. Perhaps he still is. He doesn’t entirely know what kind of creature he is now. A lonely one, for sure. And maybe that’s it. She asks a question, philosophical, one he isn’t sure how to answer. “Sometimes it feels that way and I don’t have to wonder,” he says, “but mostly, I think it’d just be lonely.” It’s why he’s here, after all – loneliness. Because maybe, this place was once home. And was he lonely, there? Perhaps. Loneliness feels familiar, a piece of well-worn clothing slipped on. “I’m Garbage,” he says. It’s a terrible name, given by a hateful mother he no longer recalls. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, “do you live in the meadow?” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |