03-05-2021, 04:30 PM
MARINER
It is his mother he worries about the most.
His mother, who pulled light from the sky and pushed it into his flesh, who made the galaxies in his skin spin and flourish.
He wonders how she will survive without her light, his mother. He imagines her angry, moody, condemned to the shadows. He thinks about finding her sometimes, cheering her up with the galaxies that still spiral across his knees, the stars that rain down the slope of his nose. They had laughed together once, hadn’t they? Hadn’t she wished upon them once? As if they were meteor showers? As if he could make them come true.
And he wanders through the darkness now as if he were a beacon and he imagines his mother wilting and he wonders what it means that he does not seek her out.
Perhaps it makes him wicked.
He knows that there were wicked things in both of his parents and that these things sometimes don’t skip generations. (Though sometimes they must because his mother’s parents are not wicked, neither one of them, and there is such dark ugliness in his mother’s heart.)
But he is not all wicked, Mariner, he knows this.
If he is wicked, he is only partly wicked.
Because he is at least partially frightened of the things that lurk in the darkness. He does not care for this darkness, although the galaxies that spin across his skin thrive in the shadows. He is not immune to fear. His pulse quickens and his breath hitches and he thinks sometimes he ought to stay put.
And one moment he is alone and the next moment he is not.
He turns and he looks and he asks, “are you a monster?” although he can tell just by looking at her that she is not.
His mother, who pulled light from the sky and pushed it into his flesh, who made the galaxies in his skin spin and flourish.
He wonders how she will survive without her light, his mother. He imagines her angry, moody, condemned to the shadows. He thinks about finding her sometimes, cheering her up with the galaxies that still spiral across his knees, the stars that rain down the slope of his nose. They had laughed together once, hadn’t they? Hadn’t she wished upon them once? As if they were meteor showers? As if he could make them come true.
And he wanders through the darkness now as if he were a beacon and he imagines his mother wilting and he wonders what it means that he does not seek her out.
Perhaps it makes him wicked.
He knows that there were wicked things in both of his parents and that these things sometimes don’t skip generations. (Though sometimes they must because his mother’s parents are not wicked, neither one of them, and there is such dark ugliness in his mother’s heart.)
But he is not all wicked, Mariner, he knows this.
If he is wicked, he is only partly wicked.
Because he is at least partially frightened of the things that lurk in the darkness. He does not care for this darkness, although the galaxies that spin across his skin thrive in the shadows. He is not immune to fear. His pulse quickens and his breath hitches and he thinks sometimes he ought to stay put.
And one moment he is alone and the next moment he is not.
He turns and he looks and he asks, “are you a monster?” although he can tell just by looking at her that she is not.
i’m a shot through the dark, i’m a black sinkhole
if it weren’t for second chances we’d all be alone
if it weren’t for second chances we’d all be alone
@[Islay]
@[The Monsters] please mess with his immortality!