Gallic

Gallic

by Francois

Black and red, like the bottom of a dying hearth, and there's a certain burn-heat too to the repeated needlepricks darting in and out of his flesh. Lying as if sedated on his stomach, arms folded beneath his chin, and strangely nervous about this, this scar, a deliberate injury though it might be. There is little he plans to own up until his imagined far away death, but he will have this.

This is a token of facetious patriotism, even after his accent dims, even after he forgets how to speak the language, and even after he never goes back.