Head Like a Hole

by Andrew Van Wey

But then again, she remembered her high school days: every kiss was desperate and passionate, each moment the most meaningful ever. Life’s volume, turned up to the max.

That vague fear in the dark basement of his imagination now coiled and took form.

Some of his best conversations had been with men and women who worked with the dead. They were a chatty bunch who knew the silence of death and appreciated the noises of life.

Tom, whose hollow eye socket glared at Adam, as if cursing him now. See what ruins we made with our lives.

Dean Henry’s words echoed down the locked halls of her mind. “We must be fearless.” “We must confront what truly scares us.”

She held a quiet wisdom, the kind born from regret and sharpened over time. He recognized its shape.

“Do you know what it’s like to have nothing? To be reduced to the barest scrap of existence? To eat desperation? Of course not. You and your friends, you whine about hardships, but you’ve never tasted misery. You’re a tourist to suffering.”