Pretty Things

In surprisingly quiet fashion, Gordo trudged through the swamp. Humidity what it was, he was trudging through the air nearly as much. His thick eyebrows knitted together. His uneven, misaligned eyes scanned the moonlit scene.

All romanticizing aside, it was an ugly world. But Gordo already knew that. He’d known that from the day his momma left him on a brothel’s doorstep. He’d known that every time some other kid left the orphanage, and he stayed behind. He’d known that with every averted gaze and whispered slur.

But there were pretty things, and Gordo liked pretty things. That’s why he was out on such a night, half damp from fetid swamp water and half damp from sweat. A pretty thing was missing. A pretty thing was lost in this ugly place.

A snapping twig, and a slosh of muck bespoke a presence of one unfamiliar to this backwoods place. Unfamiliar was likely pretty. Pretty things didn’t belong here. Pretty things couldn’t survive here.

Gordo liked pretty things.

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