The Slob

by Aron Beauregard

But I could tell, even though it remained unspoken, there was still that bit of unending guilt gnawing inside all of us. Because we each knew deep down that we were a little bit glad she was dead.

Her brown hair had dried and begun to crust with her own crimson. She was naturally a brunette, but for all intents and purposes, she was now a redhead.

The Slob’s hand regained his stance, tears rolling down one of his cheeks, pus down the other.