Sunday Morning

‘Gotcha!’ He peeks under his palm. ‘Bastid. Where’d you go? Not inside I hope! Not inside!’ His limbs spasm forward and back, darting from side to side; involuntary movements that source from the pure joy shooting through his system. ’You’ve got be somewhere. You do.’ His right eye shoots open as a boil begins to creep across his leg. ‘You ARE inside. You ARE.’ He slams his fist down onto his thigh, trying to crush and flatten the pulsing blob. ’I’ll get you. Sonofabitch.’ Drawing his nails he begins to scrape and scratch across his dirt ridden exterior. ’I’ll force you to the knee! There’s bone there. Try and get through that ya bastid.’ Slowly, he digs into himself. A soft stream of blood dribbles indiscriminate patterns across his leg before dripping droplets onto the moss-ridden brick floor. Fencing off the bodily intruder between the knee bone and finger, now buried deep between skin and muscle, he grins and squints. ‘Trapped now arent ya, ya bastid! AREN’T YA!’

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