His sight was spotted from the random flashes of bulbs going off like bombs around his head. Franz was a hero, that one, with his slow, deliberate gate, and a face like a beaten glove, and how complete he looked with her by his side, the long drawn out figure Johanna was.
Bruno was there too, the kid never said a word. He just sharpened his glare, and kept his thoughts behind his finely chiseled brow, his fingers always counting score while buried deep in his pockets.
The unreachable triumphs circled their heads like halos of smoke, it billowed from the rusted holes that peppered the wasted streets they walked. They’d have gold rings for every finger, and a portrait of fame in every paper. A tin monument, spit shined and honored with the glow of poor desperation.
A family, Johanna would have, with mustard yellow hair, cowlicked and toothless, smiling at the dinner table. She’d let her body drift, deep into motherhood and age, a happy sacrifice for the boys with their father’s swollen eyes. Franz cursed this dream, while his waited another day, and Bruno died alone.