The Wild Things Are Underground

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Reads 8
Votes 0
Parts 1
Time <5 mins

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Max walked through the door and didn't wave, or rather, he forgot to. The metro ticket sliced his finger gently but what is a sting compared to a stab. 
He loved them, but he'd forgotten to say goodbye to too many things before this and as he let his finger add to the layers of paint peeling from the wall, he felt the hunger that had settled in his stomach rise and fall with every step. 
She didn't follow him. 
He left her there in the hovel, under stank sheets, under dim lights, underground with the rest of the wild things that writhed in his mind.
A sandwich waited for him at home, a glass of orange juice too if he asked, every memory framed and preserved on the white shelves and table tops in his house that he wanted so badly to leave behind. Walking out of a cell that he once thought was the entire world felt less of a heroic escape but rather a sprint from a crime scene. 
He tasted bile, his clammy palms wrinkled the metro ticket and he was running but he didn't feel it. He didn't feel his finger throbbing, his heart breaking, his head hurting, he only felt regret for not realizing he'd only ever measured happiness with a ruler made of pain.All Rights Reserved

adolescent age choices coming death existentialism growing home imagination leaving lights modernism monsters mystery philosophy play script travel

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A Brief Forward
Fri, May 8, 2015

1 part

A Brief Forward
Fri, May 8, 2015

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