The sign read ‘Wet Paint’. Richard reached out with a finger to touch the paint and stopped less than a breath above the surface of the sheen. Decades of commands and litanies of scolding reared and projected across his consciousness “Can’t you Read!”, “Are you Stupid!” The cacophony was deafening, wilting his finger away from the wall surface. The voices of teachers, siblings, uncles, aunts, parents, continued the berating of his attempted investigation of the wall surface.
Richard’s wilting finger stopped, hooked and scratched a scar into the fresh uncured paint. He looked at the wound, smiled. The voices were silent.
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