Fiction
Vercherauxby William Wilcox
Crimson. That’s the color I think of when I remember that night. It’s what I see every night when I close my eyes. It’s not just the color of it, either. It’s also the cold, harsh sound of the word, with the hard “C” followed by the “r” that rolls off it as if to pry open the rest of the word. I can mostly think of bad things that start with that letter combination – crime, cruel, crude – very few good things. So it’s a color and a word that fits that night – that night that will dominate the rest of my life like no other.
I guess it started for me when I left college. I never considered it dropping out, though that’s what it wound up to be with me in here. I just got what I like to call “the walks.” That’s when it comes over me that I can’t continue
