Prisoner

The place Edwin came from - people spoke aloud to themselves as they walked past, gesturing into the air and slapping odor of cigarettes in his face.

He was more than used to it.

He hated it.

This place reminded him of his father - his bullish face, the strong stench of alcohol that forever lingered around him, the abuses he hurled and his huge hand, slicing through the air -

- into his stomach.

Edwin closed his eyes and sighed.

How pathetic.

Inside this cage of familiarity, he was a prisoner to his own disdain, countered by his irony and defeated by his own childhood.