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Neandrathal
...written on 2008-01-20, @ 12:10 p.m.
I send my narrow fingertips into the jagged cracks in your skull. They imagine the soft shallow dips of your scalp and the strange little bald patch above the thin white lines. Did you stumble like a punch-drunk boxer nearing knockout when he hit you with a rock? That man, jealous of wives or food or something else that was completely absurd, must have hated you. Poor fool, turned your back for just a second to butcher that last bit of prey or drag it home to the greedy mouths waiting for you and CRACK! I can see your hands dripping forward to clutch a big bloody ribcage and the dip of your head as your blood mingles with something once weak. The irony of your dying is lost on you, I think.
But you made it another day.
I wonder if that same man caught you with that arrowhead. A sharp sliver of stone that he worked and worked into a perfect point pierced your temple. Did you embrace death then? Or did you clutch desperately at life? Skulls don't send smiles across centuries. Nor do scowls mar bone. I pull my fingers out of orbitals and wonder if you were beautiful once.