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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 10, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 10, 2019



The red-blue-green lights of the train blinded him as it screeched into the station. The sharp whiff of the diesel punctuated the cold crisp air -  a shy camouflage for his own rancid breath. He hadn’t brushed, nor showered in days. So this was what sobriety feels like. He didn’t like it. Too bright, too loud; too much, too soon. He leapt up from the grimy stone bench, gaze never leaving the young man as he lumbered erratically towards him.

Please, he croaked. Stay. Please. I will do anything. Drowned by the hiss of the train doors as it slithered open.

Listen to me! He was slightly hysterical now. James!

The name felt foreign on his lips. He watched the grip on the luggage tighten perceptibly, a flash of white knuckle.

You will not change, pa.

He raised a shaky hand to touch the boy. But before his wrinkled fingers could connect with the toffee hair, once an image of his own, the train whistled loudly, disapprovingly, a warning sign before the doors banged shut.

Going, Gone. 

The emptiness of the station echoed within him. Like a television on permanent static mode. Silent yet so, so un-bearingly loud. He reached into his jacket pocket. The flask. Its golden liquid sloshed invitingly. He drank it all.

And the world was grey again.

© Copyright 2019 angst. All rights reserved.

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