O Man, Slaughter
Khalid is hiding.
He does not wish to speak of it with his lips.
For he is afraid of his withering will.
His wavering strength.
He thinks it.
In his mind.
Between his familiar thoughts.
Among his darkening miasma.
Within his anxious soul.
He thinks of it.
Often.
But, beware.
He does not speak of it.
Nor does he find the patience to write it.
Though it is only a few clicks away.
But the urge to break free is whispering between his teeth.
His hands itch.
And itch.
And irritatingly itch.
For a sleek keyboard and a modest clack between the letters.
Never.
He shall not give in.
He squares his shoulders, as people do when they supposedly think they are determined and strong, but finds himself quite apart from those people.
His people?
Never!
A sad, pathetic meaningless line.
Of a sad, pathetic, meaningless existenc--
No! Do not go there!
He blinks.
His mouth is set firmly.
Lips pressed against his knees.
Feet rocking back and forth.
From the wintry fog that surrounds him.
From the biting frost that condenses his air.
What was that? his miasma sneers. Being optimistic, are we? Do you intend to break tradition as well? Martin Luther, perhaps?
Khalid grimaces.
And then promptly realizes people do not grimace much nowadays.
Stupid people.
Why must he think of people?
What are people?
His gaze shifts quickly from one dead object to another.
A tin. A lamp. A particularly suspicious-looking doll.
Perhaps its name is Annabelle.
And she has come to relieve him of the heaviness that has possessed his lids.
Khalid gazes quickly and efficiently.
Reminds himself he cannot hide forever.
His heart agrees.
Tugs its ridiculous rhythm.
What an incompetent piece of flesh!
What shall it do when Khalid is in need?
YOU ARE READING
Babylon
Short StoryOnce, at three in the morning, Khalid wakes up to find an unread message on his computer. 'That's how it usually starts, doesn't it? With a slight chance. Sort of an impact, perhaps? Haha. Cheers, Cheecos15xx' A few words exchanged. A myriad of feel...
