AN: Chapter has been edited for clarity. I was extremely manic when I wrote it, so it may have been very hard to understand.
Again, the song used in this chapter is "Come As You Are" by Nirvana. I do not own the rights to this song.
The fresh smell of Marlboros filled his nostrils as he ignited the flame, as he ignited the flaming moon into the night sky, the red amber glow of the stick flashing as he held it between his fingers, as he witnessed the fall of the day and into the night, as he witnessed that Sonic had left him to treat a child for his sadness, as he witnessed his boredom rising as there were still no demon eggs to be found, none that required the gods to fight for it with claws and with outstretched hands that were as sharp as razor blade nails that were silver, had long teeth, that were as white as innocence that wanted to rain down upon the flesh with blood as red as evil. He expected his cigarette to be the rising sun, the glowing rise of life and light as it would drain out all the darkness from the world like a hand squeezing out a sponge, the dark water spilling throughout the sky, the dark edges of death, edges that were seeping with blood like a cut wrist. It was bloody orange, not the expected lemon yellow he always thought it would be.
He took one long drag, as his chest expanded, as the smoke pilfered through the alleyways, creating a silver-blue long stretch of twining spirits that surrounded him. He smelled nothing in the alleyways but trash and rotting corpses in Seattle. He knew how many people died everyday, and sometimes it was in the piss-soaked garbage, their only home, their only vice to tell the world who they were: homeless who had no name or no place, but the forgotten remnants of people's houses, what they considered as worthless and hazardous. They thought they were the same. Just worthless and hazardous pieces to be collected, to form a worthless and hazardous person. None of these people were worth anything, thought Shadow. It was a good thing they were gone and dead. Less food to feed the hungry who had no money. Less water to drain out for those whose throats were parched, those who couldn't afford clean water without the little signets of lithium and dust swimming around like small water lice. And less given to the ones who needed it. He wanted the world to be nothing but in excess for those who deserved it, those who have honestly worked hard to get what they wanted, those who had the blood of gods in their body. The golden blood that determined everything, from success to romance to luck to friendships. If you had a little bit of the blood of the gods, you were a happy person, with everything in your life, and you could lead the life of these gods if you wanted to. You could decide that suddenly, when you had everything, you wanted to lose everything and become like Wave and Storm, who were homeless and who were feeding off bits of trash and cigarettes and little money to spend on a McDonald's cheeseburger once in a while. They would soon throw it up, as even their stomachs that were so accustomed to trash couldn't handle everyone spitting in their food because they were as pathetic as they were.
Sonic had a brother who, even if he would soon die, had everything. A loving brother. A loving mother and father. People who read his stories loved him, when he simply said to them to just give it a chance. But he didn't want to lead the life of ordinary gods, and he soon died in his own pathetic mess of mucus and lungs that were filled to the rim of fluids. He literally drowned in his own wastes, and Shadow thought his brother should've never chose the life of a god if all he wanted to do was live a little longer just to write his stories, if he never planned on fighting or killing anyone, just to be remembered in the minds of a few men, and he thought even if his brother chose a fruitless cause, Wind would rather have a life to be loved and soon dead in his own illness than to die from these ruthless and heathen-like gods.
He wished he never signed onto the job in the first place. He wished he could take everything back, and just live his life as a normal, ordinary hedgehog who was hated and scorned and who would soon die while someone who took pity on him, instead of living the pathetic life of gods, to live in the shadows of everyone's forgotten remnants, their trash and waste. Gods were as worthless and hazardous as people. And that was why people threw them away. And instead learned about atheism. To believe no god was in control of you. He wished he could believe that, until he met Chip.
He sometimes believed that Chip was a god. The god of gods. And he controlled the universe. He scissored the cigarette deftly in his hand and closed his black lids splattered with the blood of the forgotten and restless, still thinking, thinking.
He certainly wished he had the illness. Cystic fibrosis. It would've made him value life more than he did right now. If he had only a few months to live, everything would bloom in color, until he would die in his own fluids, his own wastes. He would have it just so everything was a little prettier, a little more…vesicolor in its venacular. Not the blue steel gray that surrounded him and the green yellow and red lights that controlled everyone with a car, like an LED god.
He watched as the buses and cars zoomed past him, as he continued to smoke as many cigarettes as he could to see how much it would matter to him if they were gone. Sometimes he didn't truly value those things until they just disappeared from his grasp. And then he wanted to record those feelings he found in a notepad, that still had scrawled writings from some lovesick teenager, filling up all the pages and blank spaces he didn't fill up.
Sonic is gone.
I wanted him.
He decided to go to some child he barely knew. He abandoned me. And I am alone, thoughtless and broken. I want to smoke all the cigarettes in my pack, to actually realize they were as gone as Sonic. And I am gone too, as my shattered pieces collect on the doorstep of his mind, and he wonders if at all he can see his reflection, the cold dead soul he sees inside.
He is too selfish, too thoughtless. He protects those he can't protect. He can't save his brother. He can't save the child. Everything must be all according to motion, it must be following a straight, but somewhat jagged, line.
His wings are made of plastic. Those are not real steel feathers that can glide effortlessly in the air. He is a fake, plastic angel, with the paint coming off those lines, those features of his face, so permanent, so frozen. Smiles are not real.
I hate him. More than I hate anything else.
He tore up the sheet from the notepad, found a little crevice in the wall near him, and he placed it inside, waiting for anyone to come by and read his notes. He doubt it though. He never saw anyone read anything of his. Not his thoughts.
But yet someone cared about this teenager's thoughts. Such notes like: "Red, green, yellow. The same colors as traffic lights. You are the yellow, but I say go." He never heard such melodramatic bullshit in his life. He wanted to tear up everything from the notepad and keep the blank pages. He would only have about five pages, he wouldn't have the blank spots to write in. He would rather keep the thoughts of someone else with him, no matter how trivial they seemed. Thoughts were precious, thoughts were sacred, and he wanted to keep all the thoughts of the world with him, because the city was becoming empty of them. Everyone was soon becoming mindless, only living their day to day lives with no care to anyone else, without any thoughts for their loved ones, their thoughts for their strangers, or thoughts about what they were becoming. Everything was today. And nothing more for the past and future. They were forgotten remnants too.
He wished he was here with him. He wasn't sure why exactly, but just to have someone else with him, who could stand to be with him…those people were sacred too. Especially him.
Why did he had to go and make some damn insignificant kid happy? Does he know that Chip doesn't care for people like that? Does he know that if he did things of his own free will that he would soon get killed for doing this? Chip doesn't care for the humans' feelings. He just wants everything to flow smoothly, to make sure no time is caught between the webs, no drops of water, no drops of wine…
Wine that was the same color as blood, as that person is stabbed, hurt, screaming into the cold frozen night with the icy stars.
He heard a loud clatter in the alleyways before him, a shout and some hollering, someone who wasn't altogether sane, someone who was drinking too much wine. Too many drops of blood red wine had went inside his throat, and his thoughts were muddled, bleeding with excess elegance.
Why do I always get myself caught up in this shit?
Come, as you are, as you were
As I want you to be
As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy
The green hawk was drinking to his limit, in celebration of his great power, of his great fortune. He was a god who drank himself to death of demon eggs, who drank himself to death of red wine over and over again but could revive himself before he got to the brink of the cold reaches of Hell. He amassed so much money from his own secret scams and pyramid schemes that he truly was living the life he always wanted, the life of the Egyptians, the life of Horus, the great god of the sun and war of greedy militia who wanted nothing more but blood on the sand. The sun was sinking, he was too, deeper into the depths of inebriation, into the depths of euphoria, until he couldn't drink anymore, and he would pass out in the alleyways, pissing himself, nearly dying until he would so much as easily pick himself back up, ready for another round of red wine, another round of steak and ribs from the restaurants, another round of cheating and killing people. The life he always wanted. He definitely had it. And the things he didn't get, he was going to get, whether anyone had any say, or not.
His eyes were glazed, like blurry scratched caked in dirty orbs. He thought he couldn't even see his pupils as they dilated, the blood red wine swimming inside him, the blood of so many other gods, swimming inside. Swimming inside until they drowned and became a part of him.
The liquor ran inside his system for so long, his brain was drowning, it was being rotted in small bits and pieces, as he prepared to die, as he prepared to give up one last good fight before he would die and rise again, with his golden scabbard of his dagger, encrusted with emeralds and rubies. He could feel it burn with the fires of the Egyptian sun, and his hands were red hot with the singeing of hate, with his drowned out eyes looking to the creature that lurked in the alleyways, with his last cigarette being put out despite its small flares protesting, as his fingers looked for something else to do. Shadow forlorned the loss of them, like he expected to. But he couldn't write in the notebook contained with the stupid hipster teenager's writings. He knew who this god was, the god of war and of the Egyptian sun, and he knew that with him drunk and insane, he couldn't ignore another fight.
It was coming. Coming to kill him. Coming to make him forlorn the loss of his neck, of his sanity.
Take your time, hurry up
The choice is yours, don't be late
Take a rest, as a friend, as an old memory
Same old, same old Horus…With his stupid fucking games…
Memory…
He loaded his gun full of the bullets, with the crystalline stars and galaxies erupting from them, the little sparkles of glitter and the bursting colors of novas and supernovas combusting. New planets being formed and new gazes and new stares and new looks were being formed as the main god of gods named God said so, and he would look upon the universe and smile brightly and say how pretty they were. Shadow stopped staring at the mystery of the bullets and approached him slowly, as the hawk began to laugh and screech and stumble, with the bottle of red wine in his hand, the spill of the drink gathering on the concrete, looking like a paint of freshly coated blood. The blood of the ancients. The blood of so many gods gathered up in one bottle, aged to perfection, made to satisfy the tastes of the rich, wasted. And so many lives were shed and destroyed simply in excess.
Memory…
"So…whatcha doin' Yehl? Whatcha doin' ovur in this fin' place here? Full o' trash and gurbuge, full o' cat piss and leftover food for y'all! Foods soakeds in piss! Wonderful eatin', wonderful smokin', wonderful livin' life, unlike me…unlike me, who has everythin' in the whole wide wurld, who's the biggest gud in all of Seattle, and who has the big life and is still pretty lonely sometimes? Huh? Huh?" He paused, demanding an answer from him, as the wine slipped from his hand, creating a splash of red as someone's brain was beaten to death mercilessly with a bat, a smashed olive, a smashed tomato, like what Shadow wanted to do to Sonic, what seemed to be so long ago, a fading memory.
Memory…
Shadow stood still, cautious, even his own shadow remaining quiet and poised. Horus got closer, as the hawk's shadow continued to lurch towards the raven, as his beak and insides were dripping blood. The red wine dripping and dropping and the blood of the gods gathering around him, all the gods that Horus had killed in the past.
The gods that he used for his wine were beginning to rise up, and choke Shadow's throat, creating a nice, red, traced bloody line for all the spirits to rest in…
Come, dowsed in mud, soaked in bleach
As I want you to be
As a trend, as a friend, as an old memory
"Where my sister and bruther? Huh? Where are they? They left me. They left me culd and dead here, Yehl. They left me dyin'. They left me to fend for mi'self. And did they ever come back for me? Did they ever wanted to live the big life with ol' me? No! They saids, 'Fuck Horus, fuck him and the horse he rode on, fuck him and fuck everythin' he ever stood for!' Now would you like it if they said that to you? If youse relatives said that to you, huh?"
He expected another answer. Shadow was silent, as the shadows crept up closer with their gleaming razor blade nails, ready to aim for his throat, as his dagger with rubies and emeralds shined in the amber light. He was watching as his shadow began to crawl into the corridors, the proud raven that was becoming small, as the horned hawk's beak got longer, more piercing, like a sword…
Memory…
Shadow could see the golden glow of the knife. It was leaning towards him, closer and closer, the hawk with the piercing feathers and the piercing beak becoming more ambivalent, as his shadow surrounded him, as the raven began to crawl away into the piss-soaked darkness of the trash and dead homeless bodies. Shadow could only sigh, his heart thundering in his chest, as he unsheathed his gun and bullets, and pointed them towards his chest, the black pearls of the gun shining a sleek silver in the amber light, as the sky dazzled with snowflakes that sparked through the air.
Memory…
He stomped on the cigarette, the bloody orange sun sinking down and down into the sky and into the center of the miserable Earth. He could've mourn the loss of his last cigarette, but there was no time to mourn for him, but there was plenty of time for Horus' brother and sister to mourn him, as he drank of their blood too, their forgotten blood. It tasted bittersweet. He wished he would choke on it as if he was eating shit.
He could still feel the razor blade fingers plunging in, the needles being pushed into his neck, the small threads of blood being puked from the little hole…
Memory…
"I don't have any relatives. They all died, and I never cared for them, because they never cared for me. And would they care if you died, Horus? I think even if you care about your so-called brother and sister, they wouldn't care at all if you died, even if you drowned in your own shit."
And I swear I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun
The gun flashed suddenly in Horus' eyes, a black fuzzy figure he knew would be threatening. He could identify it in all his drunken years as a gun. Many gods had flashed one before him, and he knew exactly what to do with them. He had a gun of his own, a gun that was stronger than most guns, as Shadow could see a golden glare, as the rubies and emeralds dissolved away like sand and acid, and became a cannon, Horus igniting the fire, igniting the bloody orange sun that would soon go inside Shadow, inside his neck that he thought the dead gods were getting into, untwirling the long red veins of blood from his body…
He wondered if Horus could hear the clicks, the little fire igniting the galaxies in his gun, the novas and supernovas beginning to explode in the gun's little hole. He would be too drunk, too high to care. He knew he couldn't be too high for too long. Soon he would be too low into the earth, into the depths of Hell, because he too much belonged there.
The raven that was sinking low into the corner was beginning to be pierced by the hawk, the long beak stabbing through, piercing, sinking, bleeding, hurting, flinching.
"No, we can't say no to everthin', Mr. Hedgehog. We simply gots to get rid of the waste, the pieces of shits…"
Memory…
Shadow saw the white light of the blade ignite, the small silver flare. As he looked on, he thought he had an advantage, a way to kill the bird and make it as long and forgotten as the worthless and hazardous materials in the trash, the piss-soaked garbage. Those who lived by the sword, died by the gun. And he repeated it to himself, to keep himself calm over killing the bird that kept raving, screaming and screeching that everyone had to kill the pieces of shits, everyone had to die by his will, his fists, his power, as he was the god of gods, he was more powerful than God even, and if he said everyone had to die, then everyone had to die for his cause, for his blood-red wine that he loved to drink and spill.
He couldn't make his heart beat faster. He had to put a big black gaping hole inside it for his hands to marvel how much of a bastard he was, with his gun whose shadow was growing, and he thought he could see the galaxies and the stars and the novas beginning to be born in the long steel case, and he could see that they were ready to fight, a million galaxies would be ignited, a million more would burn out, a million stars would have life and a million would die, all in his cause, all to kill the insane hawk whose mouth was dripping blood, the maw that contained the lives of so many gods dancing on his tongue. His jowls seeping of death.
He couldn't make this lunatic have an advantage. He wanted him to die more than himself. Horus was the bigger piece of shit, in the end. Not him. Certainly not him.
Even if he thought he was at times.
Memory…
Those who lived by the sword, die by the gun. Those who lived by the sword, die by the gun. Those who lived by the sword…
"You're wrong, fuckface!"
His blade broke open, no longer a shining white light of a knife. It sparkled a small fire underneath, a small cannon that was not endowed with rubies and sapphires and emeralds, but the skulls and long white fingers, one that fired a bullet as quickly as he could blink, with small glaring white blasts of the sun as its bullets, Horus' symbol, Horus' pride and joy, his life, his father.
He saw this weapon before, but Horus rarely used it, wanting to slash the throats of his enemies instead as he liked to see them choke to death on their own blood. The blood he wished to drink, to laugh and sing under his tongue, as his little godless heathen children celebrated the deaths of many gods, including Shadow, the one who was destined to die under the dagger that gleamed like the sun.
Horus screeched into the long black night, as the cannon fired towards the raven, a solid blazing ball that would crush and set fire to all of his bones and flesh. He leaped upwards in the air as it flew past him, holding his gun tightly in his clasp. his hands were shaking erratically as he fired the shots that gave birth to so much life in their small little dangling blanket of stars, the galaxies being created, the black holes draining anything that was near them, they were dodged by the golden hawk. Horus flapped his wings that were white and bright and had nearly blinded Shadow just glancing at them, and he screeched and cried, as the blade of the dagger lurched towards him like a long curved mountain that was moving to kill him, shining so brightly against the streetlights. Even with the burning amber lights it glared and it singed his eyes.
Shadow roused his tin wings. The hawk was aiming towards him, without his blinded eyes. He jumped and could smell the black stench of death, the smell of rotting carcasses and Horus' mouth killing more and more gods inside him. He wished the smell would go away, even as it collected in the homes of everyone in Seattle. Everyone was killing a god somehow, someway, by praying to another, or no longer believing in them. Everyone killed a god in as little as a few seconds, and no one would care if they were gone. They would only be drank by the drunkard, the god that everyone hated but still existed, Horus, the god who gleamed like the sun, who hated the world, who hated his brother and sister for abandoning him, and Shadow could feel the pain for being abandoned by Sonic, but he hoped he could kill the bird with the stone. He wished. He wished. He wished.
Horus' armor that was as bright as the fires of Venus continued to burn in his eyelids.
Memory…
He gripped onto a grenade, the weapons he barely used except in times like these, as they could kill and destroy another universe if he wished it, and he released the pin, and dropped it below as he continued to fly above the alleyways. He prayed that Horus would be too drunk to notice, too high to care, too dead to notice he would be dead soon, the gods in his throat too alive, and praying that he would soon be roasted like the little turkey he was.
"I'm not too drunk to feed myself with bloodlust, to kill little bastards like you and feed mys'lf with your fucking blood you pieces of shits!"
The golden bird rose in the air steadily, like a small white rising star in the sky, and he flew with the speed of his eyes, the speed of his heart, (as it shuddered, cold in its steel ribcage) as the alleyways and all its trash and food that would be considered good to the homeless and good to the people who couldn't afford cigarettes was vaporized in a stream of violet gas and smoke that belonged to the dead spirits, the dead people who were almost in the same vein as the dead gods that were throbbing inside Horus' throat and soul, as parts of the buildings' bricks and steel were dissolved, the boards and the skeletons of the weak and frail structures, revealing some bits and pieces of its insides. If anyone died in the battle it would be his fault, but it all had to be worth it, to get this awful god dead and curled up and decaying like burnt pieces of cinder and ash, as the bird's eyes gleamed. He jettisoned towards him, with the dagger blade towards his soft and tender neck (that seemed to bleed and shine with his long red threads, the thrummings of the heart that shuddered, that begged to die at this moment along with all the gods), the white gleaming sun of the blade, the shining rays that were sharp like daggers, that threatened to scab and stab his skin. The light that prickled his skin until it bled.
I don't have a gun
And I swear I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun
No, I don't have a gun…
And he felt pain, hot and steaming and pouring from his back, the bladed blood that was coming from him. His carcass was being cut up and ready to serve to be the Thanksgiving turkey, and he yelled and cried and screamed, a cry that only crows could understand, a sharp painful caw as the dagger dove into his skin, the hot red flash of blood that was seeping from his back as he tore out his black fur. His cloak was stained with the blood of gods, the blood that was the same as red wine, as it continued to leak from Horus' mouth as he grinned widely and his crazed eyes seemed to pop out in the white black maw of the night, the red cadmium blood of the rich and poor staining his teeth and the red tiredness and the drunkenness seeping from his eyes like Shadow's precious life. He laughed and smirked, as he screeched, "Not puttin' up such a fights, huh Mr. Hedgehog? I'll kill all youse bastards, I'll kill all of youse and make sure none of you ever gruce my skies ag'in! I'll make sure you'll be as dead as your relatives you claims to not care abut, I'll make sure youse as deads as thems! Youse be deads as thems, and I will cuts your fuckings thruts and make sure you sing a nice lil' 'Hail Mary' befor' you bleeds to deaths on your own fucking cut and smiley throats! You will have a second mouth! Ones at the ends of youse necks!"
Shadow was plunging from the sky, no longer pinned up like the bladed stars that cut his skin and made the gushing blood flow in deeper and deeper rivers, the air whistling harshly against his ears as it screamed out and cried out to the injured god, the god who had so much but was now dying against a god who wasn't revered but hated by all of Seattle, the breath that reminded him of how much he failed shrilled against him, the breath that made his fur prick up, as the gash grew bigger, as the mouth began to form on his neck, as the iron bladed nails continued to scratch and tear, scratch and tear. Horus held onto his head, pushing the golden blade nearer to his neck, slitting the small soft furry neck and making a small beaded line of blood like a ruby necklace, its own wicked cruel bloody smile made from his wine, from his greediness and his hatred of his family betraying him, from his vanity and his royalty and his drunkenness of power, as he sunk that golden blade deeper into his throat, as the pearl necklace got bigger, and more blood streamed from his neck as they fell to the alleyways that were eviscerated, destroyed and stripped to even more pathetic and basic forms.
Like they were now. They were pathetic gods, bleeding gods, dead gods. And no one would mourn them if they died, like the rats they were.
Shadow held onto his throat, as it continued to roar more blood down its bloody waterfall, feeling like he was choking, drowning on his own life, his own blood that was gifted with the power of gods and that many people over the years have fought for and have spilled their own lives for. He could feel his life fading fast. Horus pressed the blade nearer, nearer, until Shadow was for sure that he was leaving this pathetic and sad and downtrodden Earth, and he knew he wouldn't be as happy with his death as he would be glad that Horus was dead, decaying in his own piss and wine and lust for power. The smile on his neck grew wider, the hapless grin of the insane and the poor, and he could barely speak, choked on his own words as Horus spoke to him slowly, watching his victim bleed as his golden dagger was now stained with the red wine that was held inside Shadow, and he made his own insane and poor smirk.
He put the dagger away, gold that was stained with rust, the rust of life.
"What is Yahweh's name? What is his reals name? I'ms going to kill him too. Kill him dead. Kill him dead like I did to you."
His eyes pricked open, as if they were covered with thorns, the slums of Seattle becoming his graveyard, the place where his funeral would be held with the white bladed and stitched stars, and no one would come to it. Not even Sonic. Sonic left him to die, simply because he wanted to take care of a child who was simply a nobody…A nobody who would serving nothing to no one. A nobody…a nobody…a nobody…
He groaned, as the gushing blood continued to spill, mixing with his red wine, the blood of the gods that were reunited.
His mouth was slowly making a new friend, the hole in his throat that would soon grow teeth and a tongue too.
Memory…
"His name…His name is…His name is…" He gathered his breath, as all his life was being drained out of him, as he knew his heart was slowly beating his last beats, as his hands shook and his eyes were being drained out to the darkness.
"Sonic…His name is Sonic. Please, whatever you do…don't kill him. Don't kill him…please…"
Horus grinned as large as the wound on Shadow's neck, with almost its own set of teeth and its own tongue, and he said, "I'll make sure I'll take good care of him. I'll take good care of him as well as I took good care of you. See you in Hell, Shadow."
"Likewise…" he croaked, as the blood he thought could be contained in his body was rushing out, beginning to be soaked out like a sponge like the bloody orange sun was in the end of his cigarette stick that was smoked away and flung away, like the light in the world, as the bloody orange moon rose in the sky, as the ash white snow continued to gather him, comforting him with their cold, icy, malicious fingers.
His vision was dark, and all he could see was the piercing darkness. Horus left, as he could hear the final sound of his boots stepping on the gravel ground. He heard the blade that was no longer shining white but pitch black as the pit inside his mouth was sheathed back inside its own little hole, and he listened to the sounds of the cars passing by and honking, and he knew that he was going to die in as little as a few seconds, and this was his Indian burial ground, the last sounds he would hear before he would burn out and fade away, where no one gave a rat's ass about him, not even Sonic. Not even Sonic, the only person who he thought cared about him. The only person he thought he was beginning to trust, couldn't save him. He didn't care enough to save him.
He took one last breath as the snow made his voice shrivel, as his vision was soon dark, as the snow and the steel blue buildings and everything that was destroyed and stripped down to their skeletons, taking away their organs, their blood, was beginning to fade and burn out. His eyes could no longer open. They were glued to be closed, as his heart was no longer shuddering, but beginning to cease its beating, beginning to die.
His ears still could hear the world outside as he faded to the black abyss of the skies, as he heard footsteps, and a gentle song, cradling his sanity, and a reassurance that he would be okay. A god that took care of everything. Even rival gods. Even the gods that would be made into the blood red wine that Horus drank. And he sighed mournfully as the nice, gentle god swept him away. He could feel her hand dragging him away, to a better place, as she sang, as she sang that his wounds would soon be gone, as his second mouth would soon be closed.
"I'll stitch up your neck. I'll make all those wounds disappear. I'll be kind to you, I'll protect you, I'll save you, I'll make you into as proud as a god as you used to be, before…Before you wanted to…"
But all he wanted to do was sleep, listening to the sounds of cars and people driving and walking by, and the gentle rhythm and hum of a little girl singing "Baa Baa Black Sheep".
"Baa baa black sheep, do you have any wool? Yes sir yes sir, three bags full…"
Memory…
The night absorbed his body, and the white teeth of the stars continued to shine so brightly, like the sun he saw before he would die, the bloody orange eye that gazed at everything, the red wine spilling from his neck, the red wine being drank and drunk by the powerhungry Horus, as he hummed his own tune, as he remembered of the good days of his family before they would betray them "like the rats that they were", so long ago…