Silex

Against all odds, blood came out of his friend's throat. In one single, deep red gush.

The stone he'd slingshot, a silex, had penetrated deep into the flesh, leaving a carmine gash like a thin pair of lips on the side of the gorge.

Against all odds, the silex had rebounded off his foe's forehead, leaving only the thinnest cut, and had flown with a butterfly's fluttering whistle straight into his friend's throat.

He had vacillated for some seconds, as if suspended on strings, and his hand was about to cover the wound when he crumpled down, as if his legs had given way under him.

He had a look of surprise on his face.

That was more than ten years ago.

The foe he'd slaughtered with his bare hands and teeth, shedding tears for the loss of his friend.

A fortnight ago, for the first time, he had opened up. He had even been happy. How he regrets it now.

Today, the carapace is curling around him once again. The lips are mouthing something. The silex tooth is munching on the flesh. He is tired.

Yes, he is tired.

The lips won't stop. And what seem like thousands of butterfly wings flutter in his ears.

Tomorrow he'll shape a silex like he used to do, and stop being a coward.