Sick

He was Sick. That’s all it was. That was Everything. That Young, that Soon. They never even used that when they talked to him, that word, but that much he knew. When/if he got better he would know more.

Right now he knew the White, the sheets and the walls, and the Red. Sometimes in the sink. Sometimes from where they put the needles, sometimes on the sheets too.

Blood, it was about that. Something bad inside his. He didn’t know that yet. That young, that soon. He’d know later, when/if he got better and older enough to Understand. But what he’d know really, what he’d earn when/if he got better and older was a vision, a vision of Tragedy as something dumb and blind on a mountain of shit throwing the shit and other things at everyone, anyone in range. Tragedy forcing out shrieked and broken nothings pretending to be words.

He was Sick. That’s all it was.

It would never leave him, not really.