St Bart's Day

‘Waiii’?! Down there! ‘Wai’ on his knees in the mud. Why did he look at him like that? Fucking lip curling up, fucking lip curling, curling. Spittle on his fucking lip. ‘WAII’? ‘STOP YOU’RE SCREAMING!’ It would have echoed over the field and into the ears of the village priest were it not for the soft, cushioning embrace of the extremely white, cotton sky, so white he could barely breathe, the floor so black for what was brown and green he could barely breathe. ‘Don’t do that again, don’t do that-‘ Smacked him round the jaw ‘AHHH, WAIIII?’ ‘Because I wanted to you cunt.’ Their bright green cloaks would have pointed them out to anyone from a mile away, bright green of the Fletcher’s boys, but the bright, bright white sky turned them into black silhouettes. ‘WAIIII?’ Screamed the man on the floor. ‘Because!’ Spat the man on his feet. There should have been people on that hill but it was a bank holiday. There should have been people there.