Meadowlark Prairie versailles

His sister cries out his name. There is something twisted about hearing such a familiar voice calling his name so sweetly. Her body is warm and so he burrows his face in to her back, clings to her as he once did to their mother. Finding comfort.

The smoke came and I went home without it, he answers. The factual manner of his answer could have hinted towards lucidity but he begins to laugh, the rough hewn quality of that tittering sound soon becoming manic. Mother isn't here.