I am waiting for my inevitable, unnerving, early release and he
is looking forward to that feminine, rebellious who will discern in his
solitary eye that which he craves to witness in both hers.
I acquiesce and write to her, the mysterious stranger. My writing is
calligraphic and Maurice convinces me that it, alone, should make the
prospect meet him.
And when she does, it will all be different. He will demonstrate to her
that there's a soul concealed in his awkward flesh and how his lonesome
eye grasps colours and sun and light and shadows. Lots of shadows.
At night, he wakes, perspiring, stifling whimpering, panicky sounds,
like beavers struggling to emerge, consuming his insides, driving the
torture wheel called Maurice. He rises from his nightmare and shuffles
to the slimy toilettes on the remainder of his leg. When he is back,
face rinsed, he looks around, alarmed, climbs laboriously into the
upper bunk, and tries to sleep.
But the sirens of that particular patrol car haunt him with red-blue
flashes in the desiccated socket of his long-gone eye. He can't erase
the gunfire sounds, the streaking bullets that carved his flesh with
long, brown scars. The raining glass that gouged his eye erupts anew.
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