IN YOUR PATH, NOTHING I COULD DO
He was back in the desert. The homogeneous expanse of solid white laid out before him; a sheet of something he could get lost in. He shivered. Quickly El Toro had fled the city; there were too many eyes that traveled along his fresh scar and his jewelry and his horns, too many ears that swiveled at the wheeze; his lips were too brittle to raise at every comment or side-eye, real or imagined. It was too much like home. Out here, there was nothing; nothing but the vague memory of a mare who must’ve laughed at him getting lost for no reason, because he could, because he was angry. He was always angry, except when he was tired, and in this particular moment he wavered on some border between the two. He wanted to get lost again, knew he shouldn’t, though the walls were at his back and he could turn tail if he thought he’d die out here.
Two tails swished against the cold. He stepped forward. It was a tiny moment, largely irrelevant to anyone or anything around, but in some way it felt enormous and heavy and like there was something waiting, just right out there, if only he’d take a few more steps out. If only he’d disappear into the white. For what it was worth, he tried.
@
"What I say,"
What I think,
