The dust swirled.
It reached up and out as far as the eye could see. Well, any eye that cared to
and not many of them did. The dust cast a sick, golden glow like the world was
caught inside an aging snow globe.
No edges.
No corners.
No way out.
Just around and
around.
The women watched
from behind the chain-link fence as he was escorted to The Fixing Room. Some of
the women smirked while others outright laughed at him. Still, others glared,
repulsed and angry, as if he were getting what he deserved.
And the one he’d
touched...
Slipped his
fingers right through the fence to feel her hair.
Then his hand
that those fingers belonged to ended up by his feet in a splash of blood.
An explosive pop of color in all
that fevered yellow.
He’d made it far longer than
anyone had predicted. Went for so long without the longing, the urges that
usually struck the males.
Until he couldn’t fight it
anymore.
He had to touch.
He had to.
It wasn’t a sickness.
He knew, in the old world, it
hadn’t been a crime to touch.
He wished he’d lived then.
The Fixing Room drew near.
His knees buckled, forcing his
escorts to carry him.
He could see
a row of seats outside The Fixing Room. Five seats, attached to one another. A
family of chairs.
Waiting and
empty.
The stump at
the end of his right arm twitched and pulsed.
He caught
sight of a juice box, nestled into the seat closest to the door of The Fixing
Room. Its straw was wilted as if it had given up waiting for its owner to
return.
He wondered
if it belonged to someone who had gone into The Fixing Room.
It made
sense.
No man who
went in ever came out.
wow, completely unexpected, very clever. Thanks for taking part
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