The Mad One
They called him obsessed, mad, even. The one who stayed back when the lights died, when the world moved on, the one that chased something no one would see.
The mad ones. The ones who burn. He had burned.
Corridor Containment
He doesn’t begin with a sentence so much as a rupture.
One moment the corridor is ordinary- lockers clanging, fluorescent lights humming, the tired shuffle of bodies moving between periods- and the next, he is there, pacing a narrow groove into the flooring, words spilling from him in hot, frantic bursts.