Creative - My Little Boy

He looked at her beautiful, smooth body. She was perfect. He approached her. She was still, submissive. He ran his hands over her slowly, letting each crevice and curve tell a different story. She was young and pure, she was innocent. He loved her. He told her so.
Paul’s first flight was in 1927 – he was only twelve years old when his mother paid a dollar so he could ride in a Boeing PW-9 fighter at a local military carnival. His father knew that once Paul flew, that would be it. There would be no discussion about the medical career he dreamed of for his son. He wanted Paul to have the same satisfaction of saving lives without seeing the horrors he did as a WWI infantry veteran, the memories of which he smothered by gorging on candy bars.   He saw no relevance in the flights of wild and fancy dreams which Paul so desperately sought, and kept his feet firmly planted on the ground, now working as a confectioners wholesaler which ensured the endless supply of Baby Ruths to get him through the day.  
But the moment he saw Paul take off in the tiny plane, watching his little boy chase his dreams, he was proud. And as his only son dropped candy bars from the plane into the crowds of people at the show, his father smiled and laughed and danced in the raining candy. As he flew away, Paul looked back and smiled.
It was just another day for Paul, the days of flying and bringing people joy seemed an eternity away. He sat in the dark dining room, content with the reality that the darkness would never fade.   His glass was empty. He stared straight ahead, looking at the bookshelf with his back to the window, feebly trying to ignore the world outside.
As Andrea trotted down the stairs in her disgustingly joyful manner, Paul habitually rotated his wedding ring. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of considering life without her- one less person who cared about him, one less person who would try to bring him back to the real world. He often thought about the...