Images stretch like shame across the path behind him, only death lies ahead. Frail flesh held together by arrogant strings and disorganized tape. He cries. Overwhelmed by what he has unearthed and unnerved because he knows it was he who buried the bodies. So many boys and men slaughtered. The child he once was lies broken in a bloody pool. The man he might have been sits in the corner, shotgun still in hand and death splattered on the wall behind him. The man he could be pleads for help using his eyes and hands, for no one could breath, let alone speak, with that much regret shoved down their throat. He feels death in the room, feels it resting behind him like a blood clot about to pump through his heart. It’s only flesh. It’s only flesh. It’s all just fucking flesh. His spirit drowns alone in an ocean of flesh, kicking and screaming in silent denial, for no one will come, for they are all drowning as well. What’s left? In a world where we have all lost our souls in this wicked red sea, how can we find true satisfaction? He hits his knees one last time. Eye’s turn skyward, his tear streaked face glistens in the moonlight, as he watches the hand come to rest upon his cheek. She pulls him to his feet, embraces him, pulls him into a kiss that leaves him stumbling. Then death finally takes him home.