gods-in-waiting

 

He staggered to stay upright as he swung the bottle wide and far. It landed with a gurgle as it hit the thick mulch of the woodland floor. He stank of alcohol and dead flowers. His eyes puffed and half-closed, his lips wide and bruised, his bronze hair still carrying in their shifting curls, the long dead halo of flowers that had been given to him by a god-in-waiting.

'Bastard' he mumbled. He had thought over and over of tearing the flowers from his hair, breaking the halo, scattering the desiccated petals far and wide, maybe even stamping them underfoot. He had meant to, but he always hesitated at the last moment, and so they were still there. Perhaps they would always be there. They had, after all, been given as a gift to his innocence, a gift from a shining god, a god with a smile as rich as the sun.

He shivered into the morning light, as he lay down on the woodland floor, nestling himself into the faint warmth of the now ghostly, light footsteps of that arrogant god-in-waiting.

'Bastard' he mumbled once more. Bastard for taking his innocence with a smile as wide and as broad as the sun.