Dialogue
“There’s nothing else left here, you know that right?” He put out his cigarette in the ground before looking over at his pale face striking out against the now-coming darkness. It was funny how even masked in the glow of brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows it still seemed so pale, so distant, so sickly. He figured it was just another condition of the way things worked around here; another condition of old age stripping away the once prominent sanity and replacing it with absolute fear. He wondered how that felt though he had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew.
“Yeah…I know.”
“Then why keep coming here and torturing yourself like this?”
He looked out into the overgrown field and considered for a second just walking straight into the field and falling down; letting the weeds grow over and around his body, the ants pick apart one by one, tearing his flesh apart and marching it back to their home to feast for another day or two.
“It’s not torture, it’s memory.”
His pale face hadn’t moved a bit, it was still staring straight ahead to the middle of that field. He wondered what he was thinking about, what he could be considering at this moment and why he was so keen on coming back and revisiting this old hunk of junk, this field that held nothing but horrible memories.
“You’re torturing yourself man, you can’t just keep fucking—” He started walking out into the center of the field, cutting James off before he could finish his thought. When he reached the middle he spread out his arms and fell backwards into the weeds. His body sunk below the tall grass—he was lost.
