An Age of Creons

If it wasn’t for the glass between us, I would have run by now. To where, I have no idea. I was too transfixed on what was in front of me to avert my eyes. And yet, it was blinding, desensitizing, like a drug. In front of me was a red bloody old man carrying a red bloody boy. ‘Armed’ would be a better description, for he held him the way a hunter carries a shotgun. Light could not touch them; crimson shaded made them perceptible, shadows and red, shadows of dead, shadows of dread. I couldn’t tell from their expressions what relation they had to each other. Their eyes were open, completely white, striking, lightning. “I shot him, and then I shot myself,” said the old man. When he spoke, his cracked lips exposed black teeth. Deep, dark, soulless. He breathed demons that man. Wraiths danced damned in his throat and swirled on his tounge. There’s a story here, a godless one. If it wasn’t for the glass between us, I would have run by now.