#0063. The Child was not his. Nor was it hers. It existed like the Holy Infant, motherless and fatherless and old before it could speak. He wonders if he should have bothered to make a life, to give a legacy to his genes, to give longevity to his name. The Child squawks in horror, not human sounds, and it terrifies the man who is not his father. He blesses his decision. The cell is so cold. The Child wanders free through the prison looking for someone in need of immortality.
No comments:
Post a Comment