The truth is out there.|
He touches the soft, worn scrap of cloth, fingertip tracing delicate pink rosebuds. Remembering...
A little girl's nearly hedonistic delight in flannel, warm from the dryer on a cold winter night. The smell of fabric softener, shampoo and clean, soft skin snuggled beside him on the couch, teasing, giggling. Inspiring irritation and affection in equal measure.
A shallow grave, the dark earth catching beneath his fingernails and filling his nostrils with rich dampness. Flannel, rotted and tattered, no longer able to warm a pile of rough-smooth bones that had once waited impatiently for the tooth fairy.
Fifteen hearts, fifteen graves, fifteen little girls never coming home.
Is enlightenment truly better than ignorance? Hope is a seductive yet dangerous shadow he can't seem to shake.
The truth is out there.
Sometimes that's where he wants it to remain.