It still smells of death. I can feel the dried blood with each step I take through the glares of unfamiliar eyes. Will they realize I am not one of them? That I don't belong by their campfires at night? That the food they offer me, the nutrients that help warm my body alongside theirs, could be the same nutrients that help precipitate their death? A death akin to the man's whose uniform I now bear.
The stains could have come from anywhere.
"Do you know Klosterneuburg?"
I knew the way.
The stains could have come from anywhere.
The pants sit too low. There was no time for tailoring. No time to be picky. If it's anything that could give me away it's this; my pants aren't long enough. This man was shorter than me. If I gain any perspective from wearing his uniform, it will be skewed by height. I wonder what varied perspective a few inches could bring? There's a thought, given away by the cut of my trousers.
"Time is of the essence. I hope you are a strong swimmer."
I've swam in a few lakes. Treading the cool water on a warm, summer's afternoon. Now I sit on the edge of the Dunabe, the largest river of this region, contemplating passage. It may be August, but it's dark out; cold. This current threatens my life, and so another man may fall victim to death within this uniform.
Maybe it will wash away the stains.
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The brain is unstable—hence we write.
1 comment:
I like this a lot. I actually feel like if I was at Barnes and Noble, looking through books in the Literature section, and stumbled upon this, I'd want to keep on reading.
I'm not going to critique this. I don't know if I'd have anything to say if I were to try to - curious if you submitted this to your class, and if you did, what they said.
Also, thanks for your comments on my post. I will incorporate them when I sit down to edit next, as I liked most of the changes you suggested.
Thanks again!
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