The Golden Master
The air in the containment unit tastes of copper and old dust. It is a sharp, metallic tang that coats the back of your throat, a flavor you have grown used to, like the taste of pennies held too long in a sweaty palm. You sit on the cold floor, your back against the steel door, and you watch the light fade through the high, barred window. The sun is setting, bleeding a dull, bruised purple...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews