The Injustice of Birthright

It felt wrong on a primal level for him to see his own guts.

That's the thought that kept bouncing back and forth in his head. Bouncing like the sharp sound that cut the air right before he felt a punch to his stomach that drove him to the ground. Bouncing, taking place of more important thoughts, like calling for help or telling his mother it would be okay. I can see my own guts, he thought. And that all it seemed to matter.

In this grayish city, where he never really belonged, where his father had a supermarket and he wanted his eldest son to take over, like it was some sort of throne, not an extra shackle to his feet. In this ambiguous town, caught between farmlands and modern roads, never sure of its identity, with people always trying to force theirs onto others. Trying to revive the old ways and dress up the corpse in the modern clothes of today, claiming they couldn't feel the rot. The city that finally decided enough was enough, and they drove against the multiple corpses wearing crowns, trying to take the food from under their feet.

But the corpses were fed power for too long, and they wouldn't give it up easily, and they cracked down on everyone. And that's how he found himself bleeding on the side of the road, the injustice of his birthright cut his guts open. Nothing mattered really, he wanted to get out, and so he did.