Somewhere on the horizon, a future existed for Charles Cuevas. Under the obscuring fog, the moon's glow that barely dented its suffocating grasp, there lied hope for a better tomorrow. He would not be stripped so bare for his own safety, he could hide endlessly, ducking and weaving behind searching silhouettes with grace, a swatted hand at their shadow. The world would know not of him, his identity, but the work protruding through smog. Articles hailed the faceless, and his work was done.
Mention him by name all you want, you will find no partnered face, no connection behind the combination. He will hide and hide again in the future, alone.
There was a future for him, and how saccharine it would be! Oh, but only if the chains didn't slide around his neck and strip him down to the skin, stretched taut over acid-worn bone. He hallucinated blood wearing on what was left of him thinly, hiding him at the cost of his self-worth and dignity.
Some future.
At least the present is here for him now.
Some future.
And what will he have to endure
Some future.
In the pursuit of the choked unknown.
There is no future for me.
