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Brass Button

I’m lost in the pattern of the buttons; brass buttons embedded in the arm of the couch, eyes glued to them. I do figure eights, running my fingers through the space in-between. The couch is otherwise non-descript; brown and tepid it mirrors the room. The dark brown paneling with deer heads and coat of arms absorb the couch into them, making it less noticeable.

I cannot sink further into the cushions, as they are firm and uncomfortable. The noise around me distant, the light from the picture window barely noticeable but I know its coming. My discomfort grows and I start to fidget, the noise becomes voices the light blocked out by moving figures in my vision.

I don’t want to see it, I cannot bear to hear it.

Escape. Not possible.

I stare out the window, the snow glitters like stars the cold is almost visible. The noise becomes screams and flesh impacting. The light is dotted with spatters of blood, the couch is my only escape.

Figure eights with tarnished brass buttons.

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