None of them knew,
of course. That’s the whole point. Were there a way to predict what was to come,
it still wouldn’t have rested with them, been dust on their shoulders, grit
along their boots. They would have entered the morning as they entered every
morning: a birth of sorts, a resurgence of life into the day. Shrugs, sighs,
the occasional shit, awakening a path we each travel at our own pace. Yet
somehow it all ends the same: fall of cloth upon body, assault of brush on hair
and teeth. By the time the shoes encase the feet it’s almost too late for them.
There would be
others, of course, but this story is not theirs. They would once again see daylight,
whatever that meant to them. Not all got away unscathed. No one does in the
end.
Erica, James,
Fiona, Cheryl. Four people laced together by that fucker named fate and little
else. Sure, it was predetermined. What isn’t?
What isn’t?
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