He entered cavernous concrete cubicle to unleash tenterhooks of the night. It felt like he was preparing for a hunt, scrupulously placing each item to suit his survival mode.
Accidental spider crossing his path couldn’t put him off his stroke.
He knew where he was, where he had been, and where he was going.
Like a prehistoric man, scantily clad but with real tools that pushed the limits. Sponge, soap, shampoo. The darkness of primeval days dispelled by bright lights hanging inside.
After the shower, Viggo was able to carry out his daily routine with the vigour of a teenager.
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
“I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.” Sylvia Plath
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More stories from Moon Desert and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Door at the End of the Hall
The dream always began the same way. Margaret would find herself standing at the end of a long hallway — walls the color of old teeth, carpet the deep burgundy of dried blood, and a single door at the far end that seemed to breathe. Not move. Breathe. The wood expanding and contracting in a rhythm that matched her own pulse, as if the door had swallowed something living and hadn't yet finished digesting it.
By Alpha Cortex5 days ago in Fiction
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