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Weekly Contest #69
The wind talks to me, I swear. It says my name the same way my mother speaks it, cuts it. It whips when all I feel is Red. And today, it definitely whips. When I arrive at my father’s house for Christmas Eve, the wind is as hollow as can be. As soon as my engine goes quiet, I realize I can’t stay here long. The cold creeps in my car too easily, like the door’s already open. For some reason it makes me want to cry, the emptiness of it all. But I hear my mother’s words say, “You are not a baby anymore. Crying solves nothing,” and climb out. ...
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