It looms in the dark. It stares at him, taunting him. He stares back, feeling the conflicting emotions inside that come nightly. The anticipation. The revulsion. The acceptance. The disgust. Round and round they go. The urges: to become part of it o to turn his back on it.
The black bag sits on the little counter successivo to it, illuminated da the portable television’s glow. The bag is filled with the tools he needs to complete his task each night. Tools that, he, himself hates to clean. He can almost hear them calling his name. They whisper to him…encourage him to go ahead with what he needs...
continue reading...
