“Get bent, you rigid dick.”
His expression is wily and his inflection scathing.
He never used to be this way. He was a polite pup, not a vicious mutt. This unfamiliar venom developed out of necessity.
It’s been two years since his mother and hometown burned up and blew away, dust on the wind.
In that time he has drifted on that same wind, blowing from town to town, doorstep to gutter, and he’s downright tired of it all.
Too long has he watched his back and steered clear of the shadows, the all-too friendly voices, the all-too obvious lies.
Here, in the after, in the gutter, there are streets with hands, shop owners with thick boots, children with sticky fingers, pedestrians with no emotion but disgust, and the shoving and pulling,
always. The closeness of the bodies and every eye, and intention, and loathing, and desperation, it pushes in around him.
It’s the aroma of grease and rotting food, sweat, moist wood, gunpowder, soil, flesh, breath, filth. They’re crammed in as close as you can get. It's all crushing movement and shouting voices.
And it’s only the local marketplace.
Read the rest via the link in the description!