Her dark veil, a time-honoured symbol of secret sin, and regardless, her private affair, as was the flaxen-haired girl’s forbidding, yet disguised scowling disposition. In one hand a cute little pink tablet that, when devoured…to be taken along with a strongly recommended swig of any and all sugary thirst-quenching beverages…ends life in an instant; in the other a train ticket to the far away end of time. What would be her preference? In terms of taking her last breath, much as muchness in many respects, yet both options played on her broken…nay, ‘falling to pieces’ more accurate…heart.
As a child, she’d always adored a ride in a smelly steam locomotive, yet previously her longest excursion to date, only as far as Kyiv. Her irksome conundrum, should she take the tablet on route or at journey’s end given that she understood that there’s Sweet Fanny Adams to see there? Such is the way with uninvited melancholy.
Me? She wanted to follow me to a place called ‘nowhere’, not realizing she’d never find me…not even the bits of me the bomb didn’t turn to ash. I no longer existed in human form. She need not have done what she did; she still had a life of freedom ahead of her if she’d only crossed a border.
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