The Golden Myth
The air tasted of rust. It hung in the throat, thick and metallic. Elias tasted it every morning. He spat into the gutter. The sound was wet. A heavy sound. He looked at the door. It was painted blue. The paint was peeling. The wood was warped. It had been his home for three years. It was a lie. "Come on," he said. His voice was low. It scraped against the silence. "Don't make me say it...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews