Dashboard

Broken glass and a torn screen in the door are signs that maybe the little shack in the middle of nowhere isn't all sunshine and dandylions, and the scattered dust leaves streaks and trails that could be from the frantic movements of a victim fending off a tall man with a knife, or they could be from the shackles dragged here by the already dead.  Sharp grating inside and cold blades outside are a cruel betrayal, because it was never meant to be this way.  But betrayal is a bit of a theme in this place, where there have been more drug deals gone bad than even in the apartment with the missing owner in town.  Twists and knots rake the once untattered brown cord of history that the shack throws across the void that is.  What nobody knows is the builder is still alive, and now he's just praying for someone to give him a lighter so he can cauterize the wound and stop the fraying then and there, before it continues.  Then maybe he'll grab his tools and put new pastel-colored shutters on the place, or maybe he'll just grab his kerosine and burn it all to the ground.