The Lost Man

His knuckles click as he tenses his fingers repeatedly. Slumped on his chair time passes him unnoticed. His eyes a dark grey look soulless now, but every part of his soul was crying for his boy. His hair silvery and ruffled, his face gravelly from lack of vanity; his gaze wanders to the clock on the side before he stands and wearily shuffles to the cupboard.

The glass clinks against another as he grabs it as if warning him. He ignores it, he ignores the echo of her shouting in his mind. His head pounds dangerously and the wrinkles around his eyes bunch up as his face crumbles. It's never nice to see a grown man cry but he is past caring.

So with new tears drying on his hope he reaches for the bottle. His weathered hands trembling he quickly snatches it from the cupboard. He seems to grow stronger as he fills his glass. The glug of the bottle his focus completely. Past caring, his clothes weeks old; this man was lost and he didn't know his way back.
He just needed one drink, that's all. To help him sleep.

 A man left with no dreams won't sleep.

The End

272 comments about this exercise Feed