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The words from the images:
The floor leached the heat from his withering body until he could take it no longer. With great struggle, he staggered to his feet and reached carefully into an inside pocket.
He lifted his mangled hand out of his shirt and into the growing light and was appalled. The scabs where his fingernails had been were broken open again, leaking tiny streams and tinier drops onto the smile of a small girl. He tried to wipe them away with his hand, but they only smeared. He slid his swollen tongue across the photo. Despite the lack of moisture, it worked to clear her image.
He looked with sorrowful eyes. Had he any tears left, they would have fallen in great streams, as rivers during a hasty spring thaw. But he had none. Rather, his lip trembled as he thought of who would take care of her now. Who would be her new daddy, and how could that man love her more than he?
She would be five. He knew this photo and could recite every detail from memory. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied back in a loose bow. Her mother’s bow. Two large brown eyes stared back at him, vibrant and deep. Her mother’s eyes.
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