LOST PUP

THE RAGDOLL IS DEAD. Its white blood stain the falling leaves but the white on yellow doesn't resemble the sun, the clouds and the day.

What it resembles feels like a void, a sense that nothing had been as real as it was believed to, that everything sucks, that everyone will step on the ragdoll on the ground.

From the ground, the boy can see the vastness of the sky, the brightness of the day, the barrenness of trees. The leaves falling on his face, burying him to hide the decomposing of his flesh, to sink the blood in his teeth, to cover the tearing of his stomach.

The cold in his fingers has disappeared and he can't feel his toes and he can't blink. The dried tears on his cheeks is hot against the red in his eyes, the cuts of his lip sears like hot iron to his thighs, the back of his head cracks like the stone under it.

Here in this place; on this ground under the sky, the boy reaches for the ragdoll but he can't move, the bones in his body too broken and he watches helplessly as they weep, as the ragdoll calls in out to him in a voice he has forgotten, in a name he doesn't remember.

Heavy heavy, the boy's eyelids begin to close but he tries to fight it, tries to keep himself awake for the clouds in the sky and the sun behind naked trees in a memory he wishes to last.

Here in this place on this ground under the sky, the boy loses the fight; his eyes wins and closes to the image of a face he doesn't know.