cut my teeth and made a killing; any

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife He’d burned, once or twice. He shows no scars for it – this took place in another world (another life, maybe – he’s never sure), but he recalls the feeling of it distinctly, the miasma of smoke, the heat licking and melting his skin. It had been horrible, but it hadn’t been the worst of the things (worst: the clown with the Glasgow smile, the way he couldn’t drown, she loves us--). (Worst: the madness that came haunting when he realized none of it was real, maybe. When the memories slicked into dreams and he couldn’t distinguish. Alive but how?) He isn’t thinking of fire when she comes crashing through the woods. He is thinking of nothing, as much as he can (memories dart and swim like silverfish, and he lets them – there are not many memories he likes to linger on). He startles when she comes crashing through the woods, a streak of purple and wild eyes, and he can hear her ragged breaths from here. He looks the way she came, looks for some monster, some menace chasing her, but sees nothing save for a few broken branches. Curious, but he is not one to judge – lord knows he’s seen enough invisible monsters. She calls out, and he decides he’d best make himself known before she mistakes him for a monster. “Hello,” he says, stepping closer, moving into her line of sight. He’s a regular enough horse, a dark purple (almost black, unless the light hits him right), no physical traits. “Are you all right?” he asks, as if he’s in any position to help her if she wasn’t. sleaze cancer x garbage