Long Road Home

Marc was at home alone perched on the arm of a sofa. He was pawing lustily at a guitar in his lap. He adored this new acquisition, a yard sale find and now his after a successful haggle, possibly the most emotionally charged of all purchases. To Marc this talisman could ward off death, as if God had winked at him, and he grinned as he strummed, liking the sound, liking the peacefulness of single life, if only for the night. He tried to picture his wife’s face, but he couldn’t get anything, like the fuse box was smashed. He grimaced and felt the hold of the bandaids on his face, pulling at his skin. His wounds began to itch. ”Bitch!” he cried, and gently put down the guitar and shuffled off to look at himself in the hall mirror. Marc examined the wounds at close range. Tiny dots of dried blood freckled his face. He began to collect wallet and keys, all he knew was he wanted fresh air.



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