He wanders the streets alone looking for a place to lie. His scarred feet leaving faint prints of blood.
The others stare and point. The look of bemusement on their faces. Eyes squinted, and noses wrinkled in disgust.
The dark sockets reflective of his hollow being. The eyes that pretend to take no notice, with their practiced empty stare that betrays no emotion.
The act began long ago. The extent of his outward emotions remains confined to solitude where none can see to jest.
To show the pain, the embarrassment, is to be weak to the world.
The instinct to survive that’s bred into his being. The sole drive of this desolate trek. A journey for the sake of itself.
The tale has been long, and the path has been dark. Searching for the end for what seems to be a lifetime.
No. Much longer.
He is the broken Childe Roland, with no Tower to seek. No ka to guide. No tet to keep.
The mindless shuffle continues with no end in sight. No certainty of a place to sleep, food to eat, or water to drink.
The only certainty that remains is that of the journey. That of life.
Special thanks to Stephen King, and Fit For An Autopsy.