Drawing Faces by Phil Cummings


My eyes opened. Everything was a blur. There were people looking down at me, I could see that. I couldn’t see their faces or who they were. I couldn’t think of where I was. I could only scream. I screamed Marsha’s name again and again until I felt some new drug, probably a sedative, nothing that gave you a decent rush, which suddenly flowed through my veins. It weighed me down and made me fall into a dreamless sleep. Real blackness. Maybe they had put me out of my misery like some useless mongrel at the dog pound.