She felt a migraine at the base of her neck. Muscles tensed around the nerves until a painful pressure crept over her skull and pulsed behind her left eye. Sometimes it would go away if she had a Screwdriver and a bag of potato chips. Sometimes things just went dark, and she couldn’t remember who she’d swung at.
The luminosity that came through the window, barely touched few objects, it almost produced no shadows. I knew well the pitfalls of that rebellious house that revenged the years of misuse by clicking worn floor planks, echoing secrets by thin partitions newly installed, watering rain by the holes of the chandeliers, for long opaque of dust and loneliness.
Miles never would’ve imagined that tonight his life would be on the line. He was ordinary. Grab the box. Pack products. Repeat. Get paid. Sleep. Get a day off in between. Life was cut and dry. “Work until you die,” he’d say.
My sleeve drops ever so slightly, showing off my battle wound. An almost skin colored tone scar, thicker than blood, that stretches onward and onward, starting from the tip of my palm and ending...