Just blend in.
But the room was so cold, and this hoodie and these jeans and these socks and these shirts aren’t keeping the heat in. So he ambled into the toasty restaurant and ordered a hot chocolate. Even tough it was July, even though it was almost a hundred degrees out. The clothes just weren’t keeping the heat in,
Just blend in.
It would pass it always did, he would be fine one moment and then in the other he would be ice cold and feverish. There was no other way to describe whatever this was. But sickness was a ticket to the farm, and he couldn’t go there, not with the boys looking up to him, him looking out for them. All they had was each other.
It’s gonna be fine, just blend in.
As the militia man passes the table, on a break maybe, or maybe just trying to look that way. Looking for freaks, or sick folks. Anyone who threatened the people, anyone different, but he wasn’t different. He had no powers, just hot/cold flashed, and all he wanted was to blend in.
The cup is cool against his palms. Even as it’s contents start to bubble and steam as he wraps his hands around it.
No No No No. I just need to blend in, this just needs to go away.
If only his hands, just his hands could feel warm again, if only. And then…the militia man is moving, and the waitress is screaming, and the other patrons are running, and there are screams and crashing and breaking glass and barking orders and a siren in the distance. Because of his hands, because of the one warm spot in the palm of his hand.
So much for blending in.
In response to Photo-Fiction #9