Ignominious Past

The wood was as grey as the sky. He could not see where the mist ended and where the ground began. He would be able to see his breath. He eagerly left the bustle of the rat race of school pick up, with its sampling of uppity and self-righteous parents; he turned his back on the small town he had called home for the past ten years. 

Humbled, he stopped. He had no choice.

The boy in the torn, red hoodie told him to go, he pointed.

He turned and vomited.

The fluid out and steaming on the ground, its hot mess writhing with partially digested ham and eggs, including the ubiquitous half mutated chunks--of what he didn’t know. He heaved again, his body protesting the reflection of its regurgitation, but nothing came out. Specks of light flashed in his lidded eyes at the strain.

The boy had diverted him, changed his route, his day, his life. The past that he ruined now controlled his future. 

He looked up.  The boy, his eyes blind white, stood mere feet from him. He pointed toward the woods.

On weak legs, he stood up. And trudged on.  Away from the boy and into the woods.

Into the dark.