Prodigal Son

by solaris2001

He entered the ruin of his childhood home and found a madman squatting in the rubble, sifting through the mishmash of faded photographs and animal waste strewn about the matted, stained carpets throughout what were once the rooms where they fought and embraced and wore at one another like the weathering of mountains into sand blown carelessly across the barren plains to meet an unknown yet preordained resting place. The madman mumbled an incoherent warning to the grown child in an invented language only they two understood and smashed a greasy fist against the wall, shaking loose a hanging mirror.

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