A Fiction in 58

A Fiction in 58.

He’s a brittle balance of angst and apathy.
Slender hands on thighs, fingers splayed, rib bones of skeletons. Dark circles rim reddened eyes, a crust of dried blood, this grotesque blossom, coats his chin.
He breathes in wheezes, a consequence of cracked ribs.
He stares at her, slumped in a chair, silent.
Debates the virtues, pills or razorblades.