on a bridge

I’m on a short bridge. The bridge is home to a pack of gorillas and there is a river running beneath. There is a beat up old suitcase… somewhere. There is a child. I am the gorilla and the gorilla is me. I toss a milk crate over the bridge into the water. The child and I are in a gang. The child is male, a ghost. What was that freak’s name, Powder?

Furiously beating the child is a punishment but it is also a rite of passage. Interference happens. The beating is broadcast. Outrage ensues. The ghost watches the whole time. It is vital not to react. Fists stop close to the eyes, the breath of it stings.

Sweat melts off the white. Bald but for a few wet strands of plaster. The child is no longer with us but I am the child. I’m not the child. I am the ghost. Come to reclaim… something. Keep an eye on the child. Keep an eye out. Out!

Someone is speaking gibberish. It’s not a language or a code. It’s just sounds that mean something, that sound like something. Just sound. Just like…

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