December 18th, xxxx
IN THE CAR, PRECIOUS close the door louder than he should. Kamil wisely keeps quiet, staring straight ahead as Precious burns a hole through him. Goddess, if looks could kill, he'll be a molten skin on the pavement.
He pretends to admire people briskly walking around. Humans folding into themselves, clasping a jacket, a coat, a coat and a jacket for a cold Kamil barely feels.
If he were to walk in their midst, he'll stick like a sore thumb what with his thin shirt and khakis that has lost its fabric strength after how many years of frequent washing.
Kamil tries to get lost in thought but the storm hanging over their heads, cooking like a pot about to boil over. But he won't be the first to break the silence. Everything is fucked up. What Precious had to do, the children living here like canned beef dictated upon by those godforsaken entitled motherfuckers—they'll have a special place in the lower rings of hell.
