From island to island, the painted dun traveled as days turned to weeks, then became months. He was not as sickly as he had been physically; in fact, he looked quite well despite his age. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for where he was mentally. Psychedelic spent most of his days in a state of madness, stuck somewhere in a prior point of his history. Most of the time it seemed to depend on where he was, which meant a majority of his time was spent lurking among the Crossing Isle shadows.
The memories here were not as wretched as the ones of sins he’d committed across the isles. He could not remember what had happened to him when he had begun to search Salem for Talya, but any time he turned his body toward it, a panic filled his chest and left him frozen, unable to actually swim back to the island again.
That’s no tragedy, Salem sucks.
Psychedelic laughed. “Really freakin’ does,” he muttered over his shoulder as if talking to a friend that walked alongside him, though anyone looking would see that he was alone. He’d never liked the desert island or the damned horses who were crazy enough to try making a home for themselves there. “Don’t know why we thought she’d be there in the first place,” he added with an annoyed grunt, walking around the trunk of a large tree.
That’s so gross.
A little voice piped up from somewhere nearby and Psychedelic stopped, swinging his head to look at the little filly sitting on her haunches. “Really? I just bathed a few days ago, I didn’t think I was due for another.” The joke left his lips lightly, tone far more different than the one Psychedelic held in his later years. Today, luckily for this little one, Psychedelic was stuck somewhere in his early days of living in the Lagoon, before the world corrupted his soul into the sickeningly nightmarish thing it had become.
|
