sticking stuff tightened its grip , propping him up as if a suit of armour .
It was his fault his mother was dead . Unable to contain his excitement , he had rushed across the road without her , darting from behind the red London bus and swerving between the busy bi-directional traffic . She called his name . One word . One voice . Sealed and locked in his mind for eternity . Although he heard her , he only had eyes for the new computer in the store window , the one his mother had saved up for . It was his tenth birthday . He ran . His mother ran after him . The car hit her , silently smashing and ending a life .
The real world faded . He dreamed himself a private self . Him and the dust .
The dust seeped into his mouth and lingered on his tongue . “ I ’ ll take care of you ,” it said . “ How ?” asked the boy , finding his voice . “ I ’ ll protect you ,” replied the dust , creeping over his face and crawling into his eyes making them sting . The dust kissed the boy ’ s tears away forming a grey lens over his eyes . The dust dived deep into the boy ’ s lungs and settled , heavy and restricting . The dust squeezed his heart to contain the pain . The boy never shed a tear again .
The boy became a man and the man became the dust , forever feeling as if clothed in pale grey , no matter the colours he wore . With the dust wrapped around his throat and without the words to explain , the man ’ s relationships failed , the antidote to the pain always out of reach . Women passed through his life like distant trains , never stopping long before moving on . During the day the man earned a
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