Purpose

Paragraphs from the Book I'll never Write

He felt the bright stinging first; harsh and beautiful and red, just as the warmth settled into his skin.

Alive. I’m still alive.

Desolate, the world came into view. His world; all that there ever will be. The teal curtains gently pulled away, the bare balcony and low ceiling…the dancing dust as he adjusted in the old worn sofa.

The sofa he’s had since Uni. That sofa.

He had his first kiss with Sophie here. He’d fallen in love on it too. His old worn sofa. His world.

The kitchen door swung open then, making him jump to sit up, his muscles protesting all the way; his back sore, his legs stiff-

“Uncle George! You’re awake!”

He could feel the silence cringe.

“Heey, Stevie.”

Stevie, a somewhat overweight twelve year old with a patch of grey hair right smack in the middle if his cranium, bounced into the sofa as…

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