KRIS
All those goddamn names.
Kyle Peary. Mitch Black. Red. Doctor Jesus.
Stacked layers, hiding, splitting. A menagerie made up of more than just names, but reasons. Excuses. Enough personas to put as much distance between whatever damaged nerve was at the centre of it all, and to give himself justification for this.
This.
Gave my head a shake and got my bearings as I approached an outgrowth of forest.
Why couldn’t he just be Kyle Peary, stay Kyle Peary?
There was something up ahead. I kept wanting to complain to someone that my sneakers were soaked, that my dripping jeans clung to my legs like a layer of skin that had become separated; about the scrapes on my hands, about …
At first I thought, I hoped, it was a large outgrowth of ferns and roots at the base of a tree, but the clo
