10-14-2018, 04:19 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; She is not familiar, at first. His memories are hazy things, reflections on a rippled pond. More things come to him, as he continues on his strange existence, and they are rarely good, rarely memories he wants – they are memories of loving and being left, testaments to his sins. He would prefer such things stay buried. At first, he only looks upon her with curiosity, the strangeness of her features – slit eyes and scales, curious, but as his eyes fall on the scales, the scales fall from his eyes, and he is struck with memory of her. A brief encounter, driven by a mutual wanting. He had not seen her again. He can recall the warmth of her, but not her name. Her name is still muddled in his memory, and he isn’t sure what’s true, what isn’t. “Hello,” he echoes, orange eyes meeting green ones, and he wonders why they never saw one another again. The timeline of it is muddled, too, where she fit in. “How are you?” he asks. It’s a banal question, pointless, but she is something fitfully familiar in a world that is terribly strange, and he wonders if she’d stay, this time, and if he could learn her name again. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |