The Boy in the Fog

The whispers are all around me now.

Leave the boy. Let him be. Save yourself. Listen.

But that’s not who I am. Have you ever been in the middle of a soybean field? It’s dead silent. I’m not in a soybean field, though. It’s just grass, grass and fog, everywhere. I can hear nothing but the whispers. They’re suffocating me.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be six feet under a hundred times over. Somehow I’m here, though. They know it. The whispers. They know I don’t belong. The boy doesn’t belong either, but they like that. They called to him like sirens to sailors. They call to me like silver to a werewolf.

We hunger. You are frail. We are not. Listen.

I push on. I venture into the soupy fog. I’ve been away too long. I couldn’t trust myself. If I couldn’t trust myself, who could? I’m back, now, though. Back for the boy. He’s somewhere in the fog. He’s known the whispers for so long. It’s been five years, but it feels like fifty without me.

Every day he came out here. Into the fog and the whispers. Every day he would go home. Safe. With his family. This time he won’t go home. This time he can’t go home. He’s stuck in the fog. He needs me. I’m sorry I left. Can you ever trust me again?


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