The Distant Wound

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 03:40:22 -

The Distant Wound

The soup was cold. It sat in a tin bowl, a grey, congealed mass of meat and starch. I looked at it. It looked back. There was no hunger in me. Only the weight of the spoon. "Drink," said the Warden. He stood by the door. He wore a coat of black wool. It smelled of rain and iron. I picked up the spoon. The metal was cold against my lips. I drank. The taste was of dust. Of old blood. Of the earth...

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