The bitter end

This is it, I tell X, the bitter end, the cul-de-sac they reserved for me, the last stand, the defeat after the last stand, whatever comes after the defeat after the last stand. You won’t hear from me again, I say, that much is certain. I’m finished, I admit defeat and I’m not moving on. I give up, that’s what you want, isn’t it? You win, I say, you’d won all along, but it doesn’t matter now that it’s over. Turn aside, I say, I don’t want you to see me. I’m walking into the wasteland, I say, like an old Eskimo, like an ostracised ancient Greek, like a scapegoat, like a sacrificial lamb, like a tramp, a hobo, but without the dog. I don’t even have a dog to keep me company, I say. I don’t even have a stick with a bundle to put over my shoulder let alone a freight train. I’m walking away, I say, turn around.

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