Yes! Another Wednesday! And this time let’s talk about a beast in a black fur.
A Hairy Beast
“You are my hairy beast.” It was what his wife called him. He loved how she curled the R while saying it.
He loved how he couldn’t walk into a room without being noticed. He thrived in their respect and their awe.
That said he was used to seeing hair in the drain. It was the price one paid for magnificence. The thick blackness swirling downwards, clogging the pipes as they disappeared.
This felt different.
It was his hair. It was the same thickness, the same blackness.
It just lacked life.
Soon all of it would be gone. In the drain, in the garbage can. Everywhere but where it should be.
Soon his enormous being would shrink. No heads would turn as he walked by. No one would walk out of his way. No. No one would notice him.
Soon all he would be was pancreatic cancer. Discovered too late. Prognosis too bad. Medication just for show.
He dragged his hand through the thick blackness once again. Hair straws followed the fingers as they left the scalp.
“I am a hairy beast.” Words so hollow they fell down the drain with what once was his being.
He told himself that he would fight this. He would survive. He would once again become one hairy beast with Rs curling with excitement.
As the man of respect he was, the lie stung. Even at this stage.