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singing with all my skin and bone
At least it's clean.
He always leaves it clean. Hoses down and sweeps up, throws away old torn rope and used needles. He keeps it pristine when he's not using it - it would look like a surgical station except it actually looks nothing like that at all. No one would mistake it for one, not even at first glance. No one could mistake it for anything other than what it is.
And he's going to show it to her.
The yard between the high wall of the asylum - broken by its rusting, twisted gates - and its heavy front doors is dry and scrubby, even as buds are starting to show on the brambles and undergrowth. It's a place where winter is hanging on. Winter, or something else pushing up through the surface of the world, something that waits down deep under the cheerful surface of the city. Its poisonous heart, all rust and gears and dangling hooks - a place which, in a way, birthed him in his current incarnation.
A place that calls him back to itself, if nothing else to remind him of who he is. Not that he's a monster, which he knows, but that he has the capacity to not be one.
Waiting for her in an open patch of ground by a crumbling fountain, he closes his eyes and tilts his face up to the sky.
He always leaves it clean. Hoses down and sweeps up, throws away old torn rope and used needles. He keeps it pristine when he's not using it - it would look like a surgical station except it actually looks nothing like that at all. No one would mistake it for one, not even at first glance. No one could mistake it for anything other than what it is.
And he's going to show it to her.
The yard between the high wall of the asylum - broken by its rusting, twisted gates - and its heavy front doors is dry and scrubby, even as buds are starting to show on the brambles and undergrowth. It's a place where winter is hanging on. Winter, or something else pushing up through the surface of the world, something that waits down deep under the cheerful surface of the city. Its poisonous heart, all rust and gears and dangling hooks - a place which, in a way, birthed him in his current incarnation.
A place that calls him back to itself, if nothing else to remind him of who he is. Not that he's a monster, which he knows, but that he has the capacity to not be one.
Waiting for her in an open patch of ground by a crumbling fountain, he closes his eyes and tilts his face up to the sky.