PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
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A storm was coming. It was perfect. A trick of the wind let him hear the laughter of old men swapping jokes at the nearby truck stop. Wyatt trudged through the freight yard. Old, rusted cargo containers were stacked high around him. In another life he would have found it artistic.
He couldn’t feel the humor in laughter nor the joy in art anymore. He hadn’t for a long time. Not since she came to stay.
She never spoke. She didn’t have to. He could feel her mood, her one mood always with him.
The demon Anhedonia brooked no pleasure.
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