The Frock

The frock was covered in paint. Finger paints to be specific. It sat on an easel in the corner of the entrance way. It had loops and swirls of colours. Splashes and splotches with more than a few simple smudges. It was a rule for that he had for anyone that visited him. You added to the frock, with finger paint, each and every visit. Some complained about the messiness of doing it, while others visited just so they could add more. Yet, those were the rules he had. Even the delivery people had too. What he never told anyone was that on the dark days, the depressed days, that was his lifeline. He could stare at that frock and know he was not alone. No matter how alone he felt or disconnected with life he seemed there was the frock. Every splash of paint was a reminder to him that people were in his life. He mattered to someone. He crossed paths with others and this was his proof. That frock saved his life more than he would admit even to himself.

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