His memories sometimes don’t feel as if they were his own, a warren of underground byways that lead to dead ends. He stays crouched in some lost corner of those suffocating dark bowels, laughter clattering down the damp hallways twisted with the running pipes.
One day I will understand this, he tells himself, there will be no more useless hysterics. But he remains dead before his time, forever caught in the undertow, trying to surface, to plunge above to the sparkling moonlight and be released from the serpentine bowels of that dark water.
Sometimes he wishes that he was a leopard, a beast of majestic instinct alone, without doubt, without remorse. He is always stealing reflections, taking them on and off as needed, to keep the conversation flowing and avoid that moment where questions might arise.
Sold again, sent across the river in shackled and bitter silence, the sun barely hanging in the sky. You can feel the city laying over itself, falling still as night slips closer. The snipers stay crouched by their windows deep into the night. A disturbed progression makes its way across a snow strewn field; the rites of the living and the rites of the dead.
It cannot all be just waiting, he tells himself.