An aged man walks through the street. Walking may not be the proper choice of words. He limps, the stubs of him carrying no force left, no will left, barely a direction.
Photo by New York Said on Unsplash
People are around but they seem not to care. He feels forgettable. It is not a rare scene of suffering here. Two feet ahead you will see another.
He shouts with whatever volume he has left the energy for. He is confessing his sins. The gathering he has made his confessional. We will hear and not judge.
He keeps repeating it, like a man who has been holding it so long the weight has finally broken through.
"I have killed many. The first was me, and the whole of my kind. And then I killed the ones who brought me in, who fed me. They were like me, could not get through without any help. Instead of having them by my side I waited for them to leave, so I could take whatever they left behind."
He pauses.
"I guess they took nothing away from me. I got everything. And I have nothing to give."
He cries. He limps through the street.
1 June 2026, Freewriters Community Daily Writing Prompt Day 3121: spill your guts!
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