I rode through the lashing rain as fast as my steed could carry me. Wind in my hair and all that. I splashed through many a puddle, ankle deep. I'm glad I had my riding boots.
And riding crop. No human could drive a horse that fast without some form of aid. Bull tail. Amazing what it can do. Dried, treated, tanned, hardened to the toughness of a sapling branch. I could whack it across a hobo's face... again. Poor thing never saw it coming. I was told his right eye is blind and sealed nicely with a nacreous cataract. The stuff of angels.
I don't care really, it's all I do now. It's all I remember. Angels.
I yearn to sit quietly with a glass of ruby port or sherry in my terrace and reminisce about old times. The warm sunny afternoons, the balmy grey evenings.
Now, I can't stop running. I have to run.
Damn it. There. Can you see it?
Right there! Damn, damn, damn.
Rain puddles swirled with a life of their own, their surface sheen marred by the relentless hammering from the skies. A myriad of minuscule ripples forming and dying and forming and dying. Microscopic multiverses imploding into themselves.
Lives lost.
Souls devoured.
Damn it! I whip my horse faster and press my chest against its mane. I can feel its fiery breath against my face, singeing my eyebrows.
The small pools of rain darken and thicken like oil and grease, tendrils and wisps of the noisome fumes rise and reach towards the fleeing rider. He rips through them like rice paper and runs. And runs more.
Fuck.
