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Exitus by Isabel Flynn

Updated: Jul 17, 2020

Friday Evening.

Your eyes are slits following the strip of orange sunset fusing into the gravel where you lay. Your body is unfamiliar, dead from waist down. He took that away. Focusing solely on chest muscles, you force, beg, and pray for inhalation. Only a rasp. Energy fails.

Incredulously you notice trifles. Twigs pressing shoulders, ants at eye level climbing a cigarette butt, a cotton shred on a torn fingernail. You try to scratch in the dirt. Futile.

The bushes are your refuge, a cradle of caring. They cannot provide air, only stillness.

Saturday morning.

'Murder victim found behind bicycle path.'



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