The Colt

The Colt;

A babbling me, about the Brooks

“Here? Yes. Here.”

Rattling underneath. Screeching of grinding. Breathing heavy with blackness and poison to the lungs. All this followed by the sounds of movement. Smallness now crowded, hard floor bouncing back equally hard objects. An equally small rising, the smelling of freshness driving forwards.

But focusing now; self-importance, but not important. No, singular importance split between more than that. Trepidation? Yes. Disgust? Yes. Eagerness? Yes once again. But split again. Rising now, rising to breath fresh. Lagging behind, but finding it easier. No pushing to be felt, too far back. Why the rushing, anyways?

Thinking. Pausing. Uncertain.

Leading now, heading forwards. Now heading left. Seeking specifically, of course. Never not. Soon to share thinking. That it would spread, was hoped. But now confusion.

Narrowness constrained, tallness dwarfed. A low brightness above, and a growing darkness below. Row's of sameness, dull grey and red. Unhurried walking, now, but mistakenly. No hurrying felt, because there was no pushing left.

More wanderings. Looking for specifics among specifics. But specific to who?

Finally, hope.

Knocking. Loud, obnoxious, knocking. Confident, knocking.

Only silence.