Hallow

The rusted knobs creak as Tate’s bone-thin fingers struggle to run a bath. Arctic water trickles from the ancient tap and sluices through the lank, pale hair his mother insists he should crop short. A few stray drops slip between the boy’s lips, tasting of copper and earth. The pale skin of his shoulder blades, drawn tight in the cramped space, blushes pink from his furious scrubbing. Just a bit more. A bit more and he’ll be clean. A phantom sigh echoes in the small room, disembodied and seemingly content.