06-22-2020, 06:50 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; Sleaze had been created in a sort of love – Cancer had loved him, even if it was a misguided kind of love. Garbage had been a stand-in, a representation of another who Cancer could not have – the magician had not told him this, or at least not so explicitly, but Garbage had known, and had not particularly minded. He did not think, then, that anyone would love him for him, so he was content to masquerade as someone else. He had not loved the magician, exactly – he had been too broken, his wounds too raw. And what of the children who came out of love? He had not been good to them. Not malicious, certainly, but not present – their mothers had left, by then, had not chosen to have him in his life. Not that he had persisted. He knows so few of them, and it bothers him more now, as he looks at Maze, wondering how much he missed, or what’s become of them. He smiles at her words, nods in agreement. “I can’t say it’s been my strong suit,” he says. His own name was bequeathed to him in such vitriol, and he had not fully realized the horror of it for years. The thought, though, of more children – ones with pleasant names – sends a tingle through him. He’s shocked, maybe, that she’s thought of this, envisioned some future where there are more children, purposeful ones. That Maze was not some gorgeous mistake. He is not used to being spoken of in future tense. He is so used to moments, ones he clings to like a drowning man, because they are gone and he is, understandably, forgotten. “I think I’d like more,” he says, then amends, “with you. Someday. If I can prove myself with Maze.” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |
@{Agetta] also lmfao poor garbage doens't know what this breeding season hath wrought....love these timelines