Monday, August 1, 2011

Slitting the Throat of a Country 2

His knife blade is sharp. He has been imprisoned far too long with nothing to do but whittle a stick to a blood-drawing point. This morning he lost his fetters.

Dank. Grime. Debris.

These were the conditions in which he was imprisoned. They fed him the chicken bones and the coleslaw; the remains of the prandial parade across the coffin-like dinner table he had only caught a glimpse of upon arriving in the mansion. He sucked the saliva from the bones for nourishment, plus whatever miniscule jiblets they had been so kind as to forget.

Fury.

He broke from the dungeon of a basement sometime this morning. I have caught word that his waif-like figure tore through the manor, leaving nothing behind but a strong scent of mildew and drops of blood from the struggle.

Flight.

Unaided fellow. Here he flocks. He is crawling up the coast of the Eastern United States one impossible step at a time; he has barely enough energy to breathe. Still, he comes. And he clutches his little whittled stick in between his bared teeth and perforates the ground wherever he can, desperately clinging to the belief that, if he never arrives, at least he made the earth scream in anguish for a time. 

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