Dawn rose bleak and colorless in the mist by the railroad track and the weathered outbuilding. A car stood lonely by the side of the road, its engine cold. Somewhere in the distance, a crow mourned. Condensation clung to the pavement, to the dirt, and to the broken body splayed across the cracked concrete.
The body was that of a man, clad in a black two-piece suit and a threadbare gray vest. Later, when we searched through his pockets, we found sweat stains under his arms and a grocery list in his wallet. He wouldn’t be needing that loaf of bread, after all.
His skin wasn’t broken. He hadn’t been stabbed or shot and throttled or anything else. Maybe he’d been poisoned, or had a heart attack. Maybe it was just his time to go. Time to die, here in this desolate area where no one walks, with no identification, no apparent reason to be here. Just fall down, dead.
The sky darkened. Cold droplets struck the man’s face, as cold as his skin. His eyes were open.
I opened my umbrella and stood over him to wait for some other poor bastard to come down the road.
Inspired by this picture.
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.