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Forty-seven

FORTY-SEVEN

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

Danny Fletcher dragged himself into the shower—not because he wanted to be clean but on account of Aiden’s impending return. He’d soon be exposed, and the shower, as best he knew, was the only place a man could cry without being noticed.

Naked. Footfalls against the tiles, a sad clap for one.

He came here to be alone. To beat off without his partner knowing. To laugh at jokes nobody else found amusing. To wrestle memories of the prick who bullied him at school thirty years ago, all those painful twinges he couldn’t quite untie; and then, after this, to weep like the pussy everyone made him out to be. The shower was where men of Danny’s breed haunted themselves.

Over the thrum of water, he heard skeletal branches clattering at the window trying to get in and toy with his animosity and hurt. He knew what must be done. Oh, the freedom blame brings.

Blood pooled pink between his toes.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.
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