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Rated: 13+ · Draft · Cultural · #1778159
Someone interesting I want to write a quick short story about. A very "fleshy" character
It feels like the blankets around him are strangeling him, as he fights his inner self for some more quiet time. Yet, the voice is not one to go away easily and he knows that the battle will soon be won. It is in the middle of winter and very difficult to get up, but the work cannot wait. Work never waits.

There is always something that needs urgent attention. An implement that should have been working yesterday already. A tractor standing in two parts, that should be pulling the planter. It feels like he just rushes from the one deadline to the next. It never stops and it is usually a disaster that is on the brink full effect.

This time it is the bloody truck again. He sighs as he gets up and quickly grabs for the dirty pants that he wore yesterday. The oilstains are there as evidence of the hard day's labour and today will be no different. It is better to wear this for another day before washing. These pants have seen way better days and it really feels like washing them is just something done by his wife to settle her own concious. Some patches of the pants has a very hard and rough texture to them form all the strange substances that has been spilled on them. He likes the familiar feel in the mornings. It helps him remember that all the hard work is not in vain. His belt is the one that he has been using since the dam incident.

Sneaking out quietly is always the plan, but there are usually some strange items scattered around the room that prevents this from happening. It is the damn wooden floors that betray him to Helen. She sleeps very lightly since the kids were born, as do all mothers. If she is awoken, it is not always easy for her being married to someon that is so dedicated to something that is financially ruining their whole life. He loves her so much more for that.

The cool morning dusk fragrances help to clear his mind. He swallows down the last bite of toast as he softly closes the door and walks to the workshed on the opposite side of the house. Every breath that he exhales immediately changes into puffiness and he pulls his collar closer to his neck. The outside greets him very quietly, for it is even too cold for the birds to be up. He puts his hands in his pockets and as he walks to the shed says, "God. please let today go better. I can't try anymore."

The end
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