Finally, I’m alone. The mountains are spectacular. The air is crisp. The silence, for once, is calming. Here, I can be myself without the temptations.
But I won’t forget them. I can’t. Like ghosts, they swirl around me; a fabric of who I’ve become. At the campfire, I’ll continue to share their stories and introduce Miller. The stories help to calm the howls; the urges; that gnawing sensation. Their stories comfort me at what I could have, yet haunt me at what I’ve done.
Miller was a friend. A good one. He pushed me. It was over nothing. But I snapped. Just like with the rest of them, it was too late. Once you mix alcohol into the equation there’s no stopping the transformation. Before I knew it, there was blood. His face… I couldn’t recognize him anymore.
Seeing his mangled body, hearing his echoed screams, I realized that I can no longer move from city to city. I need this vast desert. This view. It’s not to save myself, but to save the rest.
THEIR STORIES is my submission to the weekly writing challenge by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/01/02/fffaw-challenge-week-of-january-3-2017/). This week’s photo prompt was provided by Grant-Sud. Thank you! The goal: 75 to 175 word count. This stories word count: 175 words.
Copyright © 2017 E.F. Olsson. All rights reserved.
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