Michael looks at himself on the mirror. It looks wrong. The uniform, he means. He’s worn the faded purple before, the subtle blue, sometimes even an desaturated green. Security guard uniforms are never usually a stand out color, and over the years they always seem to be these worn out things, coming apart at the seams. Michael thumbs the stitches that go up his arm. They’re a lot like him that way
Henry Emily - uncle Emily? Mr Emily? - he had sent over a new uniform. Soft blue button up shirt with pastel yellow slacks and a vest. Even some fancy shiny black shoes to match. Michael still isn’t sure if Emily has caught onto who he is yet. despite his fake name and best attempts to keep a low profile, the letter that accompanied the clothes seemed quite pointed. A little on the nose
And so, this is what is odd. Michael, a man fraying at the edges, dressed in brand new clothing, crisp and clean against his mottled decaying skin, for the first time in
Seven days later Michael recalls that clean pressed clothes are just the thing you put on a corpse before you lay it to rest in the ground, and he welcomes his cremation with open arms.
