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Sorrow

skull-warm-up

The table thumped. The thoroughly calloused leather that covered his hands, was no match for an oak surface, and the inch long sliver of wood sticking from his knuckles, did little to dissuade him from repeating the mistake. After the third gory punch he settled down into his chair, letting his arms dangle between his legs, as blood dripped from deep cuts into a puddle at his feet.

“I loved her,” he said. His voice was gravel. Tears mixed with dust left trails of mud down his face. He hummed a sorrowful tune and rocked back and forth. The chair creaked with each shift of his body. The moments passed. The smell of blood and his unwashed body mingled, and filled the cabin with the scent of desolation.

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