In what once was Königsberg, 1960’s
The shearling wool tickled his cheek, soft and bouncy in the way only a lamb’s fur could be. The strands were coiled neatly and kept him warm in his heart’s country. It wasn’t too long ago when he’d have stripped the hide of an animal himself- he remembered many outings into the woods with naught but a rifle and a blond pup following his lead.
Further yet into the past, when he’d gut and tan his kills himself, in barren forests where his prey soaked the snow red and nothing but trees holding his congregation. Things had been primal then, every day a fight for survival. Blood roaring, fingers twitches and teeth gnashing until one chipped.
The cigarette ash had fallen on part of his lapel. He’d brush it off, knowing the pelt would be singed, fingers still twitching even now.
