Thomas Wilson

Thomas Wilson

Thomas Wilson washed his hands in the sink for the fifth time and dried them on his jeans. He could fill a bucket of hot water and soap and take it with him, but this was not the time to be strategic, the atmosphere and dreadful drama demanded less. He walked through the narrow hallway and pulled the cellar door open that was always struck. Again, he should have left that open too. He stepped down into the dimness for the sixth time.

     The floor was mud, hard in places, soft in others. Wilson’s boots left the occasional footprint. He attempted a whistle, but his lips and throat were too dry. He crouched, questioned why and what had happened. He picked it up, wet and slithering. This was the final piece. The heart of the matter.

     He climbed the stairs again to the kitchen, laid it on the table. Wilson pulled out his phone from his back pocket and made the call. He knew that it would go straight to answer, but he had to speak. “God. I know you’ll pick this up later. I did it.. I did to save us all. I hope you understand and agree. I’m going out now. I need to run this all off.”

     Thomas Wilson washed his hands for the sixth time, went upstairs to put his jogging pants and old green Adidas shoes on. He came down and went. Went west.