Firelight graced the waning night. He leant back against the chilling stroke of a backstreet lamp post.
An acrid smell of combusting plastic singed flared nostrils as it mingled with the pungent aroma of ink and water based paint.
“So…do you know who did it….?”
“No-one would’ve had the time, it’s a cry for help, but not a literal sign.”
The night’s temperature rose, bristling under his chin, stretching under the leather jacket. Sweat trickled, leisurely.
Words stumbled around a clumsy tongue. Fingers had already traced the words, squeezed them out in purple ink. M’aidez.
Copyright: Victoria O