He rubbed a hand across his knees and leaned closer to the meager flames. The only warmth hit his face, but it came with billows of smoke. He coughed and leaned closer. He didn't care; he already smelled like smoke, and he was going to die before he got a bath.
His face felt like it was glowing from the warmth. His skin felt large and taut and stretched out across too many ridges. If he moved, his skin would split and his skull would pull out and leer at the fire instead. So he didn't move.
In his last moments of leisure, he broke down and thought of his family one last time. It was weak of him, but no one would care. He could hear Lewis sobbing and Franklin's strained laughing behind him. So he gave in.
Weak-man baby-tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving cold tracks on his hot skin, driving home the point that his composure failed and his facade cracked. The tears ended their journey where they ought: the fires of hell.
They hissed as they slowly extinguished his small fire.
Same guy, different day.
ReplyDelete"Weak-man baby-tears" is especially brilliant.
ReplyDeleteThe only thing about this post (not necessarily bad) is that when you say "Lewis" I picture C.S. and when you say "Franklin" I picture turtle.
Well, I almost put "Louis" but that's a first name so tada I guess.
ReplyDeleteI actually had to go back and make sure it was, in fact, "Lewis."
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI think, these days, Lewis could be a first name. Seems like anything goes in child-naming now. Great piece and really sad.
ReplyDeleteHaha, captcha is "rarin."