His head is smoke.
The tip of a burning cigarette becomes his red eye. He is the Cyclops at fourteen years old, chewing all 70mm of gritty Russian tobacco to pull out messy Chinese calligraphy into the October sky.
“Your mother couldn’t sleep for a month,” a man in a blue suit says. He looks like a slab of tofu that watched too many reruns of Mad Max. Just replace the cold leather with a fake police uniform, and the personal vendetta with a roll of fat cash.
The man adjusts the holster around his belly. He tilts his head at the Cyclops, like he is studying a creature at the zoo. “You want to come home now?”
The Cyclops, he just sits and shrugs. There are railroad tracks behind him. A snail is smeared under one Dr. Martens boot, its shell cracked like a toddler’s skull caught in a bar fight.
“Your mother is waiting,” the man says again. He positions himself in front of the Cyclops so that they are perfectly aligned.
Click. “Let’s go.”
The Cyclops, he bites his cigarette with teeth stained yellow from not touching toothpaste since the leaves were last green. He has heard stories about the men in the blue suits. He knows what they can do.
But the Cyclops, he is only fourteen years old. He stares at the hole in front of him, the one that goes ‘click’, and all he can think of is how he is invincible.
Millie’s Note: Hi everyone! I’m going to post a new flash fiction story every Friday. Let me know what you want to read.